Ad Mortem Festinamus
by SkeletonConductor
Summary: Umbrella fell, but not everyone fell with it. HUNK, the last soldier of the once great company details his missions, his thoughts and his survival in the years that follow. Rated M for language, graphic violence, and subject matter. Please read and review
1. Invisible Wounds: Dark Bodies

**Author's note: I do not own Resident Evil or the character of HUNK. All I own are this story. Also, some may be disturbed at times by the content that is in this story. They do not reflect my own thoughts and intentions but rather that of ****character's. Hopefully, having this story told from a ****first person perspective**** doesn't throw too many people off. Whenever a sentence is capped off with an 'X', it means that the sentence is translated.**

_Vita brevis breviter in brevi finietur,_ _Mors venit velociter quae neminem veretur,_ _Omnia mors perimit et nulli miseretur._ _Ad mortem festinamus peccare desistamus._ Life is short, and shortly it will end; Death comes quickly and respects no one, It destroys everything and takes pity on no one. To death we are hastening, let us refrain from sinning.

_Llibre Vermell de Montserrat, 1399_

June 7, 2002. Vaupes, Columbia.

Situated in Southeast South America, it borders the Amazonas and contains the Andes Mountains. A hot, arid section of the planet, filled with what remains of the Amazon rainforest. If it weren't for the activities of the native inhabitants, it would almost seem like a nice place. Almost.

The call came in approximately a day and a half ago. Someone within the South American government was in need of my services. It had been a while since a job of any real merit had come around and I could feel myself getting rusty. Besides, work is work. It keeps the mind fresh, the nerves sharp and the skills hardened. Once I got the details of the assignment as well as the price they were willing to pay, I accepted and boarded a plane to Vaupes. From there it was a long car ride through the sweltering heat of the country side. The driver knew well enough to not talk or ask questions to answers I wasn't going to give. He just drove for what seemed like hours until we finally reached what could only be described as a military compound. It stood out fairly well.

Thick, high, chain-linked fences lined with razor wire. Long fields, no doubt used for either exercises, drills, or weapons practice. There were several jeeps and light armored vehicles situated on the grounds as well. And finally a long line of barracks as well as a few hangars. The jeep comes to a halt, kicking up dust as it slides across the gravel strewn on the ground and I get out, making sure to grab the duffel bag in the back seat with my own _personal_ items. I then follow the driver as he leads me to one of the barracks near the North end of the compound.

The barrack looks nothing more than a giant white box with windows. It's easy enough to tell that it's a base of operations or at the very least, a meeting place of some sort. This one is nicer than the others, kept in better condition, reinforced with extra concrete and decorated with a few flags. Incidentally this is a poor decision. Having any sort of sign makes it stick out too much, allowing the enemy to make it an easy target if they chose. But none of this is of much concern to me, as I am not the one in charge here.

The driver leads me to the front door where two men in fatigues and military helmets with M4 assault rifles in their hands stand guard. Without saying anything, he leaves me to enter the building. The guards standing before me say nothing. They don't even look at me, obliviously knowing of my reason for being here. If it were any other case, they would have asked to see some form of identification. Or they would have shot me on sight.

I climb a short distance of three concrete steps and enter the building only to be confronted by another soldier on the inside of the building. The man is dressed exactly like the guards outside, minus of course the M4.

"State your business" the man says in a thick Spanish accent, holding up a hand to halt me.

I look at him coldly before saying, "Major Chavez requested my presence here"

"Follow me" he orders, satisfied with my response.

I do as instructed and am led down a long hallway before turning to the right. Making the turn, I'm presented with a set of thick, metal doors. The soldier before me opens them and I step into a poor man's excuse for a board room. There is a long, wooden table with six chairs set up on each side of it. Two men are already situated on opposite sides of the table. They turn to look at me as I walk into the room and sit down, one chair away from a black man who looks to be about in his mid thirties. Across from me is a younger, Latino looking man. Well, _man_ might be too much of a stretch. The kid hardly looks eighteen. Both are dressed in black fatigues, military boots and have shaved heads. Without looking at either of them, I can tell that they're checking me out, studying me to see if I'm just as much a soldier as they are. Sizing me up.

It's a male thing that I'm all too familiar with. Tiring of this little game of gazes I look to the front of the room where an older man, dressed in a traditional military suit complete with badges and patches above the left pectoral muscle, stands by an over-head projector. He has an equally traditional military style hair cut which has begun to gray, a sign of his age and perhaps his experience. His stone cold, gray eyes hide under a mess of thick eyebrows and within deepening sockets.

"Gentleman" he says with a Spanish accent that rivals the driver's who brought me here. "I thank you for coming. My name is Major Santiago Chavez. Let's get down to business"

Chavez kills the lights to the room and fires up the over-head projector. He clicks a small remote in his hand to shuffle through a series of pictures. The first that appears is of a younger man, in his forties from what I can tell.

"This is Raul Gomez" the Major says. "He's one of FARC's chief supporters and sits at number four on our list of men that we need 'rid of' "

Given the area of the world that I find myself in, as well as the extensive reading I've done on the various countries of this planet, it comes as no surprise to hear the man's words as they tumble out of his mouth like a rehearsed script.

The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. A people's army. In Spanish it's known as _Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia – Ejército del Pueblo_ and can be shortened to the acronym FARC. A guerrilla force, they're about 6,000 to 8,000 members strong, which quite literally makes them the largest insurgent group in the American continents. They will take next to anyone that they can get their hands on. Mostly the impoverished or those disillusioned with their current state of affairs. Men, women, even children, it doesn't matter. If they can fire a weapon, they're deemed capable by the groups standards. They also control somewhere around fifteen to twenty percent of Columbia's territory.

A long, sorry list of the thing's these people have done for ideological reasons include kidnapping ransoms, murders, assassinations, vehicle bombings, extortion, hijacking's, and attacks on any political, military, economical opposition as well as targeting civilians. The group finances itself through heavy involvement within the drug trade, primarily cocaine manufacture and transportation, as well as arms smuggling and trading.

All this alone is enough for various countries to label the group a terrorist organization. Hell, in my day I've been known to dabble in a few of these activities myself when the situation called for it. If someone were to ask me if this makes me a terrorist, I'd answer with a solid 'No'. Were someone to call me on that, question me as to why I believe that to be true, then I'd tell them strait faced. It's quite simple. A terrorist is someone who inflicts fear into others in order to accomplish goals for a given cause or radical ideal. I have no ideal or cause to follow. Me, I'm just a merc. All I know is war. All I know is whatever the mission entails. You tell me what needs to be done and I do it, so long as I get paid for my services. That is, if I survive the mission.

Fuck. I'd kill the Pope as long as someone was willing to convince me that the Vatican had started an armed conflict, and that my services were needed.

I continue to listen intently as Santiago continues to talk. It's important to gain and keep as much information as possible. You never know when it may save your life.

"Gomez is in charge of one of FARC's largest cocaine and arms distributions. He's also a tyrannical man who holds the surrounding communities in a state of unrest, fear, and death due to his and FARC's actions. Time after time our government has tried to take Gomez down but to no avail. We've lost good men. It's gotten so bad that we've called upon the United States as well as the UN for assistance in the matter"

He stops talking for a few moments, the strain of years of fighting with little result are getting to him. Chavez collects himself, taking a deep breath, and continues.

"Unfortunately both parties are not convinced that there is enough evidence to mount an attack on Gomez. Nor are they willing to risk the man power without knowing exactly what they'd be up against" the man says, making his words almost like a plea. "Guerrilla fighting is a risky tactic. That is why I've called upon you men. I need people who will get the job done quickly and discreetly. Men who will not hesitate to do what needs to be done in order to complete a mission. For the sake of our country."

Correction, the sake of _his country. It_ makes sense. The major needs people who can get the dirty work done while still keeping a healthy image of himself and his military. He needs people who _don't exist_, to complete the mission. Men who don't have any qualms about doing the ugly and tough work that other governments wouldn't even conceive. In this part of the world, in order to save those that can't save themselves, the only option is to outmuscle the person responsible for it all. And the way you do it is to show up with more guns and more skills. And no one does this better than myself and the men that sit in the room with me.

**III**

No current badge, no insignia's, no tags. And no names. The only one who knows them are those who hired and sent us here. Chavez is obviously the one who called in for us. He made the calls to our parent companies and the companies call us on the basis of performance and reliability. I've worked this way before and it doesn't surprise me to see that this is how it's going to be once again. Sitting in the small room, I'm told that this will be a small, covert operation. Four men, including myself. We all get a designation. Men referred to as Units. Four men, four Units.

I'm dubbed Unit One. The black guy, Unit Two. And the younger, Latino guy, Unit Three. The absence of the fourth man makes me a bit cautious, but only for a brief moment. It passes once I hear Chavez address us again.

"Unit Four was introduced into Gomez's compound weeks ago under the pretense that he was a new FARC recruit. Since that time, he's been mapping out the layout of the house and documenting the defenses that it holds"

The Major clicks the remote again and a detailed map of the house comes up.

"He's also sent us information in regards to the number of hostiles the area holds. With all this gathered info, we are ready to launch an assault on Gomez"

Chavez turns away from the projector, his expression serious and business like as he addresses us.

"Unit One will act as field leader for this mission." he says, pointing to me.

As expected, like I haven't heard that before. The other two men turn their heads slightly to look at me. I can't tell whether it's because they didn't see the decision coming or if it's because they're wondering why I was chosen over them. Perhaps, if they're unlucky, they'll understand.

"To avoid suspicion, we had our people drop your needed equipment within the jungle here, here and here" Chavez says.

He clicks a button on the remote he holds and three red x symbols appear on the map.

"Each is a mile from the main compound and you can retrieve them by using these transponders that we provide you"

He slides a small, black device the size of a pack of cigarettes, to each of us. I stuff mine in a pocket while the other two men turn them over in their hands, intrigued.

"You'll be equipped with an M4 Carbine with mounted scopes, a side arm, and extra equipment such as suppressors and several extra magazines for each weapon. Not that you'll need them extra ammo" he smiles slightly. "Along with your body armor there is also a combat knife as well as night vision and infrared goggles provided"

After rattling off the list of supplies, the Major turns back to the topographical map and shines a laser pointer on it.

"From there you'll need to make your way on foot to the compound. It is imperative that you move through the jungle and stay away from the roads as much as possible. As you can see by these charts, the thickest roads are the ones with the most activity"

He moves the small red dot to the three thickest roads that cut through the jungle. It looks almost like a bird's foot.

"The thinner roads are not as much of a danger but I wouldn't advise travelling those routes either"

A concentration of smaller routes surround the larger ones and cut through the area. I study them in relation to the location of my equipment before the image on the over-head projector switches back to the housing compound.

"The main compound and housing area are here" the Major states, walking closer to the board and circling the area with the laser pointed. "It has a perimeter fence lined with razor wire at the top, about a hundred and fifty yards in every direction from the main house.

I eye the image slightly, thinking of the number. A hundred and fifty yards is a lot of ground to cover in a short amount of time without being seen.

"Intell tells us that four guard towers are situated at each corner of the fence, housing one guard. Snipers, well armed but not necessarily well trained. Once you make it to the compound, you will radio Unit Four who, from inside, kills the security system. You won't have to worry about automated lights or tripping any defenses after that. Those tower sentries will be priority number two. Without the motion sensor or flood lighting, you shouldn't be able to rouse too much suspicion. You then make your way through the fence taking out any remaining sentries around the outside of the house. And believe me. There will be at lease two on the first and second levels. Take them out and make your way inside where you'll be joined by Unit Four. From there, your orders are to apprehend Raul Gomez and to retrieve any and all data relating to FARC's drug and arms smuggling routes. You are to use any means necessary to extract the data. Lethal force is authorized for this mission. Gentleman, are we clear?"

There is a unanimous "Sir" from each of us as he push away from the table and head for the door, myself bringing up the rear of the trio. The information is received, digested and understood. Our orders are clear. Particularly the 'any means necessary part' which in itself is a good thing. The less red tape, the better.

For any soldier, two things must be understood: one, the mission comes first. Getting it done and done correctly are the primary objectives. And two: once the first bullet goes past your head, politics and all the other bullshit that goes with it, goes right out the window.

**III**

A few hours later and I find myself travelling through the thick jungle underbrush. Each Unit goes their separate way so as to not arouse suspicion from anyone who might be spying on the military encampment or in the surrounding area. We're each driven as far into FARC territory as we can get without being shot at. Eventually I'm let out and the driver turns around, leaving me to my work in the middle of nowhere.

The arid heat is intensified by the uniform and boots that I wear, clinging to me like a second skin. When the Major offered to give me a set of fatigues, I declined, more comfortable in what I had brought for myself. The stark black uniform hugs at my body, compounded by the number of belt straps wrapped around my waist, thigh and shoulders in order to hold the available ammo in place. A black balaclava covers my head, causing the hot weather to almost suffocate me. I ignore this and continue my trek through the thick jungle, jumping over logs and pushing my way through a collection of dense, tropical plants that I haven't taken the time to memorize. Nor do I take the time to stop and identify them.

Of course, the uniform and ski mask are not the only items that I have supplied myself. While a little unorthodox, the heavy, black, bowel like helmet will prevent me from getting shot in the head. And the gas mask rounds out my uniform. Why the gas mask? Well, when you've been doing what I've been doing for this long, you tend to guard yourself against any possible threat. You also stop asking questions and just go with what works.

The uniform gives me the illusion of something alien as I make my way deeper and deeper through the jungle, following the transponder's signal. Through the goggles in my mask, everything looks a light shade of red. Not that I need to see in color to find my way. All I need to do is follow the signal of the transponder in my gloved hand and hope I don't come across any unnecessary obstacles.

**III**

Several minutes later, the sky opens with a torrential downpour. Rather than be deterred by it. I see it as both a blessing and a curse. More noise and motion means less of a chance that my team and I will be spotted. Even if it is at the cost of easier travel. I continue to follow the transponder's signal, getting closer and closer to the equipment that is waiting for me. Being without a weapon makes me a bit nervous. Having no way to defend myself in such a hostile area isn't exactly the most appealing way to go about completing a mission.

My concerns are justified when I find myself required to cross one of the smaller roads to get to the equipment. Just as I near the tree line I hear something out of place in the jungle setting. Holding back, I wait and hope whatever comes my way passes. The sound of a jeep's engine cuts through the rain like an animal's roar and before I know it, a set of high beams shine through the foliage. Then the car stops, about seven feet away from me.

"_Great"_ I curse inwardly.

The last thing I need is an unnecessary setback. Two men occupy the vehicle. From what I can see, both wear military fatigues and hats and are armed with AK-47's. FARC soldiers out for a late night joy ride. From the way they act, laughing and lightly hitting each other, they're most likely fucked up on cocaine and have decided to take this opportunity to stop for a small break. As much as it pains me, I'll have to wait for them to get over it and leave.

I stare at the watch on my left wrist. A minute goes by. Then two. Finally after five minutes I'm getting impatient. But without any weapons, there is no way to engage them from this distance without getting shot. I wait for a plan to come into my head before one comes and falls in front of my lap.

The passenger gets out of the car and walks my way. From the little bit of conversation I can hear through the rain, the man has to take a leak. And wouldn't you know it, he walks right towards me. My heart starts to pound in anticipation as the man nears. Then it settles as he walks right past me, not even seeing me in the darkness of the night. I hear a zipper open and the sound of liquid pouring on the ground. He's distracted. There's no more time to waste, so I act. Making sure the driver's back is turned, I pop up out of the foliage behind the man as quickly as possible and move behind him. My hands shoot out of the dark and I grab him by the head, cupping my right hand underneath his mouth and chin. My left hand grasps the occipital region of his head and I apply as much force as I know how in opposite directions.

Turning the head almost a hundred and eighty degrees around, the man's neck breaks with a satisfying snap. The sound reminding me of a chicken wing separating at the elbow. He goes slack and I let the body down softly to as not to arose suspicion. Looking up, I see that the driver has turned around and is staring towards me, perplexed. He hasn't seen me, but has noticed that his friend is missing. Now the driver walks towards me, gun leveled at the tree line.

I look down at the body and notice a combat knife sheathed in a holster on his leg. Removing it, I circle around behind the driver as quietly as I can, letting him walk deeper into the tree line. I walk, Heel to toe, heel to toe. The best way to cover the sounds of my footsteps.

"Emilio, astaza qué?" he calls out.

I'm right behind him now, my arms outstretched and aiming for the correct spot in his back. Just to the left of the spine, the fourth lumbar down. The abdominal aorta. Severing it will lead to massive hemorrhaging, leading the man to die due to exsanguination. I'm lined up perfectly now. I breath in and out, moving with the man, trying to predict where he'll go next. Finally I see. Satisfied, I move in and cup my hand over the his mouth, using my knife hand to strike into his back. I drive it in, hard, making sure that the blade goes as deep as it can. It's amazing how much damage the right tool can create in the hands of an experienced person. The man's shock is enough for me to hold the blade in place and arch his back, making sure that the knife does its job. Eventually, life leaves him as he bleeds out internally, and I let the body drop to the ground, leaving the knife in his back.

Looking down at my watch tells me that I'm behind schedule. Leaving the two corpses in the jungle for the animals to feed on, I move as fast as I can, letting the transponder guide my way.

**III**

Another two miles and the device leads me right to a duffel bag, hidden within the brush. Crouching down next to a fallen log, I open it and survey the items inside. Both sets of goggles are there and I check them to make sure that they work. Stuffing them into one of my side pockets, I reach in for the combat knife and magazines. Shuffling though them, I see that there are six total. Three sets of eight round .50's for the side arm and three sets of Colt, 20 round clips for the M4. I put them in the ammo holders strapped to my chest.

Reaching back into the bad, I see the sidearm isn't really a side arm. The weapon is an Israeli made Desert Eagle pistol. A bit excessive for this type of mission. But you can't argue with the results. I then remove the M4 and check to make sure both weapons are in working order. Slapping in a clip to each, I check the barrel, trigger, safety, slide, breech, hammer, and grip to make sure that each is flawless. The scope that sits on top of the M4 is also up to my standards as well as its stock.

The final piece in the bag is the silencer that I take and apply to the barrel of the M4, twisting it into place. The heavy, metal weapons help solidify me in this foreign environment. With everything set, I flip my watch up to look at the compass underneath. I have one more mile to cover North.

In due time, I find myself standing within the tree line of the compound. Looking out over it I see that it is just as Major Chavez described it. A large area several square yards big, wrapped by a chain linked fence, seven feet high. Taking out both sets of goggles, I can see the two twenty foot front guard towers, a man in each stands with a spot light affixed to the tower itself. Each are armed with a sniper rifle, although from this distance I can't tell the model of the weapon. Looking past the towers I see a large, white house that reminds me of some sort of plantation dwelling. Looking up and down the lavish, two story house, I see another two bodies moving along the balcony of the second story. Both men also appear to be armed. From what I can tell, there are no other signs of hostiles from where I stand. Using the infrared goggles, I can only see heat signatures of the four guards in the towers as well as the sentries at the front of the house. No doubt there are also some sentries near the other two units' positions.

I reach up and speak into the communicator hidden in my wrist cuff, "Unit One in position"

Touching the earpiece hidden underneath my helmet I wait for the others to respond.

"Unit Two and Three in position" their voices come through.

A few seconds later and I hear a new voice come into my ear, "Unit Four in position"

Everything is set up. All that remains is for me to give the signal. There is no time for waiting. No time to hesitate. No time for doubt.

"Kill the system" I say over the communicator.

Even though I can't see or hear it, I know that Unit Four is right where he needs to be. Within seconds I get another call over the radio.

"Security system is offline" Unit Four informs me.

That's done. Now I want to make sure that the others are ready.

"Units, targets in sight?" I ask.

I hear Unit Two and Three respond with a 'roger'.

"When you have a clear shot, take it" I order.

With my sights on my targets, I watch as the two sentries on the upper level of the house stop moving for a few brief seconds. The time is now. I take in a breath. Somewhere, a lighting strike occurs and the sky booms with thunder. Letting the air out of my lungs, I sight in on the first man and pull the trigger on the rifle. The weapon jumps in my arms as the M4's recoil kicks the gun's stock into my shoulder and drives the scope into my goggle. The rain compounded with the silencer make the shot virtually undetected. The soldier falls, never seeing the attack coming. The silencer eliminates the muzzle flash of the rifle as I target the second man on the balcony and drop him with a solid shot to the head. Changing my targets, I aim for the men in the guard towers. Closer targets mean that the shots will be more precise and I give each man two in the chest and one in the head, ending their lives.

From over the radio, I hear the almost miniscule sound of the other two units' weapons discharging.

"Unit's Two and Three what are your positions?" I call into the radio.

"West side of the house"

"Unit Four, meet us at the location"

"Roger" he responds.

I make it to the other two men's position as fast as I can. Once there I see that they have cut a man sized hole through the fence and are waiting for me on the other side, against the house, just underneath the second story balcony that wraps the upper floor. A few feet away and I can see the shapes of two other bodies lying on the ground floor. I dismiss them and focus on the task at hand. One step jump later and we're all inside the darkened house. A new man, dressed exactly like Units Two and Three meets us in order to allow us entry through an upper window.

"Sir" he says, "No hostiles within the house. Just Gomez, his wife and their daughter. Gomez has been in his office since 8 P.M."

"Good, lead the way" I tell him, giving him a quick tap to the shoulder.

Unit Four does as instructed, leading us down a series of hallways lined with an expensive looking carpet with some sort of oriental designs on them. Furniture and paintings line the walls along with photographs of people I've never seen before. Most likely relatives or comrades of Gomez. We walk in a single file line formation, myself bringing up the rear and making sure we aren't attacked from behind. Regardless of Unit Four's intell, I don't want any surprises. We each sweep the air around us as we walk , turn corners, and keep close to the wall and I silently thank that the men I'm leading aren't incompetent. Soon we're all standing at the entrance to the office. A thick cedar door stares back at us.

Taking the infrared goggles out again, I look through them, seeing only the heat signature of a single person. Putting the equipment away, I nod to the other Units who get into position. One man on each side of the door, ready to rush in once another kicks it in.

With weapons ready I say "Go"

Unit Four drives his booted foot into the door, turning it into splinters while the other two rush in and sweep the room. Following Unit Four, I go in last just in time to see a startled, forty year old man jump up from his desk and try to make an escape, only to be kneecapped by Unit Three. The man tumbles to the floor, the bullet wound oozing blood. By the time he pushes himself up against the wall, he sees that the four of us have our guns trained right on his face.

I don't have much time to take in the room, only noticing that it has a lavish wooden desk lined with papers and personal items, large selection of books housed in a book case and a few modest pieces of furniture laid out for guests. Mostly couches and a few chairs. The walls are decorated with either framed artwork or the heads of game that the man has hunted. There are carvings in the walls which, even through the red goggles of my mask, look like the walls are made of ivory or something to that effect. None of this matters to me as I move past the other Units. I crouch down and get into the man's face and right to business.

"Do you know why we're here?", I ask to which Gomez nods, still astonished. "Where is the data concerning FARC's drugs and arms smuggling?" I question.

"I…I don't have it" he stutters.

I hit the man across the face, hard. He doesn't say shit. I then take my weapon and press the barrel into the wound in Gomez's leg. He grits his teeth through the pain but still, he doesn't relent.

"I swear to God. I…I don't have it" he pleads. "One of my men is transporting it to another location"

Liar. Doing this long enough, I can tell when someone's lying to me. His speech fumbles, tripping over himself. The man's eyes dart back and forth, searching in vain for something to buy him more time or perhaps buy his way out of this. He sweats, his breathing is erratic. He looks like he's about to throw up. This is probably the first time he's had a gun pointed at him. I understand why this is perfectly. No one's had the balls to oppose the man thus far. And without anyone to back him up, it doesn't look to good for him. The only authority he has is when he can command others. Alone, he's a coward.

"Unit Four. Locate the wife. Tell her to lend a hand" I order.

Unit Four leaves the room, knowing what I mean. Gomez is breaking, but not yet broken.

Interrogation is a simple matter. When dealing with higher ranking officials torture should be used first. And if this doesn't succeed you find what the enemy holds dear and use it against him. Abduction or execution of family members is the next course of action, always beginning with _female members_.

Unit Four returns, carrying something in his hand. Gomez looks over to him and then back at me before the unit hands the object to me. I told him have Gomez's wife lend a hand. But apparently she'd rather give it up instead.

I hold the severed hand of Gomez's wife before him. The limb is delicate to say the least as I notice the clean cut that Unit four has made to remove it. Still fresh, blood drips from the raw stump where the hand used to be attached to the wrist. I take notice of the diamond ring adorned on the ring finger. Hopefully now he'll understand the severity of the situation that he's found himself in. Throwing the limb at Gomez, I resume with my round of questions, but to no avail. All he does is just look at his wife's hand, now sitting in his lap, with a look of shock and horror as he starts to hyperventilate. Still he keeps quiet. It would seem that the man is harder to break than I thought.

"Get the girl" I instruct.

Unit Four leaves again, only to return minutes later with a bright eyed, yet groggy little girl wearing a sky blue night dress. Her dark, brunette hair travels the length of her small back, tied off in French braid. She looks more bewildered than scared, unaware of what's happening. The girl can't be more than six years old.

XPapa, who are these men? What do they want?X she speaks with a small Spanish voice.

Immediately, Gomez starts speaking rapid Spanish to his daughter, giving her explicit instructions to give us the information that we came for. Only he's telling her to give us a dummy flash drive. He thinks that by speaking in another language that he can mask his intentions from us and hopefully save his life as well as his daughter's. After awhile, I just tune out the man's voice as it spills from his mouth.

He's putting more stock in his activities than in his family's lives. He's more stubborn than I anticipated. This gets boring relatively quickly.

XYou know, I speak SpanishX, I tell him, putting a hand on his daughter's shoulder.

I also speak German, Arabic, French, Chinese, Japanese, Latin, Russian, Polish and a little bit of Hindi. But who's counting anyway?

He goes white as a sheet. The man understands quickly that there is no dancing around this one. We have him by the preverbal balls and he knows it. He's defeated and this fact is quite evident. Hell, he probably knows that his own death isn't far off. I reach for the side arm housed in the holster on my hip and remove it, clicking the safety off the weapon as I do so. The Desert Eagle has a decent weight to it. It's heavy for such a small piece of equipment. Perhaps this reinforces the destructive capabilities that it holds.

I look right at Gomez and make sure that I'm understood.

XTo prove to you the severity of the situation I'm going to say this in your own language. Either you give us what we came here for and you and your daughter get to mourn your wife in peace. Or make this difficult and you're going to need a very small casket made up for someone in this roomX

Gomez's eyes go wide and he starts to cry. I can't tell whether it's due to his defeat or for the life of his daughter. His emotion doesn't deter me in the least.

XI'm going to count to threeX I say, pressing the barrel of the weapon to the back of the little girls head.

I let him mull it over in his mind for a few seconds before I begin, letting it sink in to his brain. Any other time I would just kill the man and start tearing the room apart. But we're pressed for time and I don't want to have to do that. Sometimes it's easier to take a more indirect route in getting something completed.

"Uno"

My thumb pulls back the hammer on the weapon, making an audible 'click sound' as it finds it's resting place.

XPapa, where is Mama?X

"Dos"

My index finger moves from the trigger guard to the trigger, tightening around it. The man starts to become extremely agitated. His breathing increases, his chest moving up and down in rapid succession. Through my gas mask I can see him start to sweat bullets while he shakes his head in denial. His eyes are frantic and large, darting back and forth between myself and the little girl I now hold at gunpoint.

"Tres"

XPapaX the little girl says one final time.

Part of him thinks I won't do it. This probably isn't the first time he's had his families life threatened. But this _is_ the first time he's been in a situation like this were the threats have actually come to fruition. Gomez is quite tenacious and still doesn't relent with giving us what we want. What he doesn't seem to comprehend is that the mission objective comes first. Even if we have go to extreme lengths to complete it. It's a shame. This little girl could be the one to grow up and find a cure for cancer.

Oh well.

My finger applies the remaining pressure on the trigger and a deafening bang fills the room for a few seconds, only to be followed by a wet, slapping sound as blood, bone chips and thick chunks of brain matter spray the man in the face. Like taco meat mixed with raspberry preserves. The body of the little girl twitches for a few moments. Then she falls forward to the floor, making it unclear as to the extent of the damage. But, having a vast knowledge of weapons ballistics, it doesn't take much for me to paint a clear picture in my head. At such a close range the Desert eagle, loaded with .50 AE rounds would have enough force to not only enter the human skull and kill the target, but to cause an exit wound the size of a soft ball. This would destroy, if not completely obliterate, the target's face.

It takes a few more seconds for the man's shock to wear off. All he does is sit there, breathing in quick, rapid succession, almost to the point of hyperventilation. The gore, having sat long enough on his face, starts to run and trail down the fissures in his skin with parts of his, now late daughter's brain falling off in chunks. He sees the pool of blood start to appear underneath the little corpse and it all comes together. The man slowly starts to come out of his shock and, like a brittle piece of wood, snaps completely.

His screams and curses fill the room for what seem like hours. Several times I ask him where the data is but to no avail. After awhile, his cries start to get on my nerves. I don't have time for this. The man is completely gone so we go to plan B.

"Fuck it. We'll do it the hard way" I say frustrated.

With my sidearm still in my hand, I level it at the traumatized man. At the last second, with tear streamed eyes, he raises a hand in a weak defense. I don't even hesitate and pull the trigger. Another shot erupts through the room as the bullet hurtles into his skull in less than a second. A small, red hole appears in the man's upper left temple and his features go wide as his head snaps back and the exit wound splashes a brilliant color of red against the stark white wall behind him. He then slumps against the wall and falls to the floor on his side, next to the corpse of his daughter.

"Tear the room apart" I order.

We go to work. Books are thrown from the shelves, furniture is broken up, and carpet is torn from the floor in an attempt to find the data. About three minutes into the search, Unit Two produces the dead man's lap top computer. Thirty-eight seconds later, I discover a USB flash drive taped to the top of the ceiling fan in the room.

Opening the computer and powering it on, I see that there is no password protection, no line of defenses. This is a good thing. It makes the whole mission easier, like taking candy from a baby. I take out the flash drive that was discovered and plug it into the computer. A few key strokes later and this man's entire operation is ready to be downloaded into the computer. There's just one little snag. A factor that was not taken into consideration. There's so much information that the download time is quite long. At least fifteen to twenty minutes.

I turn to the others and address them.

"You three stay here while I go outside to secure our exit. When the data is downloaded, we rendezvous in the tree line in front of the compound. Are we clear?"

There are three 'Sirs' from each man. Satisfied, I turn and walk out of the room, leaving the men to their work.

**III**

I wait patiently in the tree line for the remaining three units to come out of the house. The mission is a success and we can all go back home. As I wait, I wonder about the consequences of my actions before dismissing them just as quickly as they had been brought up. I had an innocent wife and daughter killed for the sake of the mission. So what? 'Unaffiliated' and 'non-resistant' mean nothing to me. This is, what I do right now, is war. You do what is necessary in order to succeed and survive. There is no room for hesitation. No room for conscience. There is no place for compassion, or mercy or even remorse. You do what needs to be done. No questions asked.

Suddenly, I feel the rain that has hounded us through the night let up. I take my eyes off the house and look up to see the clouds dissipate, revealing a cold, pale moon in the sky. The shining orb illuminates the entire compound, the sudden light source both a blessing and a curse. We need this to be as silent and unseen as possible, regardless if this is the start or the end of the mission.

With my patience wearing thin, I reach up to talk into the communicator when I see three shapes making they're way across the sentry-less front lawn. Through the goggles in my mask, I can see the units moving in a single line formation. Two men facing me with the rear man facing back the way they'd all come, so as to not get shot in the back. At the rate they were walking, they'd reach me within several seconds.

With the rain and wind gone, the only sounds left are that of my breathing and the insects that roam this area of the night. So in other words, it's quiet. Which is why I'm able to hear what comes next.

_KLICK_

I know the sound of an anti-tank mine being triggered when I hear it. I only get to process it for a few seconds before a white, blinding light and a fucking deafening crack go off.

SHHHHBOOOOOOOOOOOM

Being close enough the blast, I'm thrown off me feet and into a nearby tree. Fighting against an insurmountable pain in my back and upper body, I try to get back up but my entire equilibrium is thrown off and there's a horrible ringing in my ears.

"No one said anything about any goddamn mines" I say to myself.

I try to walk, my movements sloppy and disoriented as I shake off the effects of the blast. I teeter back and forth, my vision hazy and unfocused. As I regain myself all I can think about is that some of the information was fouled up. It's true that dis-information is sometimes required for enemies and allies. But whoever said that never had to be knocked to his ass by explosives. I tear off my helmet and gasmask in order to breathe better as I look out at the grass. Searching for the other three men, the moon illuminates the area, showing me what I can only comprehend are bits and pieces of the Units. That, and a big fucking red circle with a width of a hundred meters.

"Fuck!" I yell as the realization hits me.

The other three men were extracting the data. And it, along with the men, just got blown to shit.

"Uhhhhhhhhngh"

A noise, several yards to my left grabs my attention. Walking towards it, I see that it's the body of Unit Three. Or, at least, what remains of Unit Three. The blast that had all but obliterated the other two men had not done nearly the same to the last. I neared him to assess the damage that had been done. Right away I knew he wouldn't make it.

"S….s…sir" the man called out weakly.

Moving closer, I kneel down and take the man's outstretched hand, holding it as he tightens his grip. I look over to his other hand to see that its holding something.

"Soldier" I say, "Do you still have the data?"

He immediately uncurls his fist to show the flash drive in his hand, unharmed. I silently breathe a sigh of relief and take the small object from his hand, depositing it into a side pocket. The mission is successful, even if it did cost two men their lives. Well, three if you count the man lying on the ground.

The mine had completely severed him in two, destroying his legs and a good portion of his pelvis. All that remained was a torso as well as the rest of the upper body. A smell, like that of cooked meat and chemical powder drifted through the air. I look down to see the charred and twisted remains of the man's pelvis, torn clothes and a collection of intestines that spill from the man's underside. Just by seeing the look in his eyes, I can tell that his brain hadn't caught up with what his body was going through. At this rate, if the blood loss doesn't kill him, the trauma would.

I let go of his hand and let it fall to the ground. He looks up at me with wide, scared eyes. Helpless eyes. The eyes of a child. Because that's all he really is. Just a kid. A kid who didn't ask for this. Didn't ask to die.

"Sir" he calls again. "Am I…g….g…gonna…make it?"

"No" I say without flinching.

"I…I…don't want to die. P….p…please s…save me" he pleads

"This is war. Survival is your responsibility" I tell him, not caring about his predicament.

Just by looking at him I can tell that what's left of his nervous system is giving into the pain. The man can feel it now. Death would come for him soon enough. No man should have to go through the pain that the kid is experiencing. Which is why I do what I do next. I pull the Desert Eagle from its holster and level at the young man's head. Without thinking twice, I squeeze off a round. It slams into his head with a loud 'thunk' and the kid stops moving. As I holster the weapon, the clouds return to cover the moon again as I fade back into the jungle to make the long trek back.

**III**

Two hours later and I'm back in the barracks where I received my orders. Major Chavez meets me and I hand the flash drive over to him. He's more than happy to receive it. I also hand over everything that was provided for me, save for the items that I supplied myself.

"Excellent work Unit One" he says. "What of the other members of the team?" he asks.

"KIA" I respond.

"I see" the man says without a hint of remorse. "Well then, I'll have your payment wired to your account"

"Are we done here?" I ask, ready to call it a day.

The man nods and I start to head for the door.

"Unit One"

I halt in my tracks, looking back at him with my peripheral vision before turning to face him. I'm agitated to say the least. Usually when someone says their through with my services, they mean it. I can only wonder what the man wants now. He reaches for a folder off of the table and grabs it, walking towards me as he does so. When the man is about two feet away from me, he speaks again.

"Do you know why I chose _you_ for this task?"

"Sir, I have an idea" I say, without really caring to much. I know what he's going to tell me next, having heard the conversation many times before.

"You have a flawless performance record. You get the job done. I've talked to a lot of people all over the world and they all say the same thing. You're the best. But I'm a bit of a skeptic when it comes to the idea of 'best'. That was, until I saw this"

The man draws my attention to about half way through the now open folder and the sheet of paper resting within. My eyes go right to where his finger is pointing. Right underneath his fingernail are four little letters in bold print.

_**HUNK**_

"Once again, only you survived. I knew I could expect you to get the job done"

The reason I was chosen. The reason that I'm _always_ chosen is due to my record. As dubious as some may be, they're always impressed with the results. And that is why I am called upon. Because, no matter what the odds, no matter what the danger, I can always get the job done. It puts men at ease when they can use a soldier who exceeds at what he does. Until something comes along to change it, I will always be labeled a Human Unit Never Killed. A soldier that can be called upon to deliver the gift of death who is akin to Death himself. And the Death can not die.


	2. Everyday is Exactly the Same

**On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero**. Chuck Palahniuk, _Fight Club_

July 16th, 2002. _Location, Classified_.

Routine. Every single person has one. Whether it's getting up at the crack of dawn to pray or to jack off, everyone has something that they do. Routine keeps people going through the day. But it also keeps them trapped within a monotony of repetition that threatens to destroy their lives before they even get a chance to live them. Sometimes we can look at such things in the sense that they are a paradox. Normal people turn to routine because it provides them with a sense of stability, a means of security. Routine for me is that which provides self preservation. Survival.

Routine for me, has allowed me to live as long as I have.

I find myself where I always do when not out on a mission. I wake, back in my own bed, allowing my senses to come into being. I smell what I normally smell. Hear what my ears are accustomed to hearing. And see what my eyes allow me to see. Nothing changes. Everything is just as it always is.

My eyes open, blinking for a few moments before I look over at the night stand near my bed. I notice that the clock radio reads '10:00'. Pushing off of the bed, I swing my legs over the side and sit up right, letting my head hang as I try to push the remnants of the night from my mind. The older you get, the more difficult it becomes to do this. Your body screams at you to rest more and to not exert yourself. I do what I can to ignore this as I take in a deep breath, letting my chest expand, allowing my lungs to fill with and then expel a fresh mixture of hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen and a mixture of other compounds that mix to create breathable air.

Somehow, it makes me feel alive. Makes the world come clearer to me. It's something that everyone experiences but no one truly grasps. It isn't the rhythmic breathing that you experience when you sleep. No, the first _large_ breath of the day is most similar to the first breath we take as infants. The sensation that one is still amongst the living. That one is not dead yet. Getting off the bed, I walk over to the safety railing and look out at my home.

I don't live in what could be called an apartment. In truth it is more similar to a warehouse loft. Everything is out in the open. There are no walls or doors separating anything in my dwelling. On the upper level is my sleeping quarters. Only a bed, oak nightstand and dresser and closet space are in the area. Partially separated by a piece of the building that comes inward is a desk containing an encrypted personal computer, about seven or eight feet away from my sleeping quarters. With the amount of money that I make, the model of the PC is top of the line. And as luck would have it, I'm well versed in computer sciences. Within the same area of the computer is a large book shelf containing a wide variety of reading material. Everything from human anatomy, medicine, virology, weapons, survival training, martial arts, psychology, war, strategy and sociology are contained on the shelf. Ready and at my fingertips.

Downstairs is the large, bare living space. However, _bare_ may not be the best choice of words. There _is_ a kitchen area composed of a sink and cupboard system which is separated from the open floor by an island. A washer and dryer for my clothes sit about six feet away from the tall metal refrigerator that rounds out the kitchen area. There is also a moderately normal couch where I can view my flat screen plasma TV, which is almost perpetually set to CNN. The only thing worth mentioning is that all of these items are essentially pushed against the walls as much as possible in order to give me as much open space as I require.

My living space is essentially empty. I have no pictures, no art, and no other forms of furniture. There's a noticeable echo in the loft. And I prefer it like that. I don't feel it's necessary to have anything that others have made to help define who I am. Besides, I sleep alone, I eat alone. I prefer to be _left alone_.

I move down to the lower level of the loft and get myself going for the day. The wide, spread out hard-wood floor is forty feet by forty feet. My morning routine is always the same. It keeps me flowing. Makes me remember what is likely to be forgotten. Repetition and practice help shape me into what I am. I stick to a serious regiment of calisthenics, mostly inspired by Navy Seal training. Everyday, I do six sets of thirty pushups, six sets of thirty sit ups, and three sets of ten pull ups, aided by a pull up bar that I had installed within the loft. When the weather's good I also get in a four to five mile run in as well.

Looking out of the window's I can see that the weather is taking a turn for the worst. So I forsake the run in favor of practicing various CQC drills that I have chiseled into my memory. I stretch and do this as long as I can. Until my muscles ache, my lungs burn, the blood in my veins boils and the sweat pools in my eyes I don't stop. That's the beauty of exercise. You push yourself to your breaking point so that the body will have to repair itself. Once this is accomplished you can allow your body to be pushed further the next time.

Whatever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.

Once the workout is over I move across the open floor to the only closed off area of my living quarters, my bathroom, to take a shower and get dressed for the day. Opening my closet you'd see that my wardrobe consists mostly of stark colors. Blues and blacks. A few whites. A large selection of jeans. Nothing too baggy. It takes me out of my element. Feeling too loose makes me feel vulnerable. I dress in a pair of blue jeans and a tight black shirt that hugs my frame.

Normally, there's enough food in my living quarters to keep me content. But when you're used to _doing_ _what you want_ and _going where you want_ for so long, the words 'cabin fever' become all too common to me. And as luck would have it, I've been staying inside for far too long. Two weeks is enough time with which to shut yourself off from the world.

I grab the keys for my loft from my nightstand and a jacket from my closet. Then, just before leaving I visit the bookshelf back upstairs. Walking towards it, I run my hand along the side of it and grab the catch. Pulling the bookcase to the side, like it's on wheels, reveals the collection of weapons that I've amassed. A small armament of handguns, submachine guns, shotguns, and rifles all sit in the cache that I created within the wall. A black uniform, helmet and gas mask also rest within the space, hanging from hooks on the wall.

I walk in, grab a 9mm Berretta and make sure it's loaded before stuffing it into my waist band. I make it a point not to go anywhere without a weapon. Without one I feel vulnerable.

**III**

There's a small restaurant near where I live. It's quite a walk, but I don't mind. Stepping outside, I see that the sky is overcast and a slight drizzle has begun. Around me I see cars drive by and street lights change. It's a quite and ugly morning. The sense of despair is thick, intensified only by the scenery. All around, I see everything from liquor stores to pawn shops. Every building has bars on the window. Graffiti decorates every ally I walk past. Yet for some strange reason, the streets are clean and free of refuse. But I just take this as it comes to me. It has no affect on my sense of being. I don't want to be a product of my environment. I want my environment to be a product of me.

I like to take these down times for myself. You can't allow yourself to become too engrained in one thing for too long without developing some sort of serious problem. I live my life _my way _and let nothing else compromise that. As I walk, I allow my mind to wander, to think about what I've experienced and know and believe. I see these people on the streets, content with their lives and their perception of how the world runs. Blind, ignorant, and unwilling to acknowledge that their world is not as perfect as Hollywood would present it to be.

There was a period after Vietnam and even during the Gulf war, where the American public thought that the world was going to be all sunshine and smiles. And they couldn't have been more wrong. The media and the news is utter bullshit. They water down the experience so that the people of the Unites States won't completely break down. If civilians even had an idea of what was really going on, how their wars were being fought, or how many young men were coming back home in body bags, it would shatter them. The idea of a perfect world is a fallacy. And has happened since the middle of 1998 to confirm this.

Raccoon City was just the tip of the iceberg. Then 9/11 happened. The last thing that anyone wants is a war, _except for me_. People want to use every other option besides fighting to solve a conflict. They think that you can solve all your problems by sitting down and talking. Well, that may work for some. Other's, on the other hand, decide to take 747's and fly them into buildings to prove a point. And as expected, people completely lost their shit. For many, the time to stop living without problems was over. Now, the problems were here. Real problems overseas. And problems that you'd expect to only occur in your _nightmares_. Not that any of this bother's me.

Everybody dreams, except for me.

I'm not going to beat around the bush. War is ugly and evil. But it is still the way things get done on most of the planet. What many people don't realize, or rather the _idea_ they can't grasp is that war, conflict and fighting will always be there. It makes no difference what men think of war. War endures. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting the ultimate practitioner.

People don't understand that war has solved more problems than peace ever could. Even when the evidence is right in front of them. If you want to make a point or accomplish something, you don't do it through peace and talking. You do it through turning your enemy into a cluster fuck. You _make_ your point by proving your might over others'. War will always be with the human race. It's part of it. It's who we are. It's in our nature to destroy each other and to prove who is worthy of survival. War is simply the natural order of things. Since the dawn of time, no society has ever stood the test of time. Hell, the United States won't exist forever. No country will. The only thing that _will_ continue to exist is war.

Life's simple. Kill or be killed. Natural selection. The survival of the fittest. Darwinism. Call it whatever you want. People can pray or march for equality and rights all they want. They can hope that their way can thrive through peace and non-violence. But I understand things differently. _Sic vis pacem parabellum._ It's Latin. Translated it means, 'If you want peace, prepare for war'

Sometimes, simplicity is a wonderful thing. If only everyone would open up to the idea.

**III**

I cross an intersection and make my way to the restaurant and walk up to the glass door, pulling it open. A slight jingle rings above me as I enter. Inside are a good number of people, sitting, talking, eating their meals and shutting themselves off from anything that is outside their sphere of influence. I silently curse to myself as I take in the number of bodies in the eatery. There are about fifteen people all together, including the employees.

I was hoping to eat my meal in peace without any distractions.

The establishment is quite familiar. A red tile floor pattern with booths lining the large picture window of the street. Across from the booths is a bar system that serves as another serving area. Past the bar is the kitchen. Dim lights are overhead and the smell of cooking meat fills the air. The sounds of silverware and speech mix to form a chorus of noise that I attempt to block out. The policy of the place hasn't changed. It's a seat yourself, type of establishment so I go and take the last available booth along the West wall, facing the street. It isn't long after I sit down that a waitress comes over to serve me. I don't even need to look at a menu to know what I'm in the mood for.

"Five eggs, scrambled. Four sausages and four pieces of toast. Black coffee" I order without even looking at the woman.

She leaves and before too long, a plate of steaming food and a cup of black coffee arrives at my table and I indulge myself. As I sat and enjoyed the meal in front of me, I let my mind wander again to years and events gone by. No matter what happens in your life, good or bad, you can't let it take control of you. You can't run from whatever occurs in your life. Running never solves anyone's problems. Sooner or later, they come back to you. That's why it's important to never forget. To never let go of your past. You have to learn from it and your mistakes, and move on. Or be forced to repeat them.

_But some people never learn._

At the beginning of the 21st century, the Umbrella Corporation had become the largest commercial entity in the United States. Nine out of every ten homes contained its products. It's political and financial influence was felt everywhere. In public, it was the world's leading supplier of computer technology, medical products, and healthcare. Unknown, even to its own employees, its massive profits were generated by military technology, genetic experimentation and viral weaponry.

The company seemed to be on top of the world, allowing those below it to eat out of their hands. They had it all. And then someone had to go and fuck it all up.

There are certain things that you can't forget. Life altering events that push you to a brink you never thought possible. Most people go through life never experiencing anything more than a death in the family, a car accident or a home invasion. They can't understand the dark parts of life that only the brave or ignorant experience. No one can understand what happened to Raccoon. But I can. I understand this because I was there.

I can still remember it like it was yesterday.

It should have been simple. But working in this field, nothing is ever what it seems. The Umbrella Special Forces Unit or U.S.F. We were a paramilitary unit intended to counter corporate terrorism and V.I.P. abductions within the company. When Umbrella caught wind of what one of their own was up too, they weren't especially pleased. The U.S.F. had gotten our orders from the higher ups that one of their researchers was creating a new type of virus. What troubled them was that something of value was going to be sold off to a competitor. If there was one thing that Umbrella didn't stand for, it was their employees going behind their backs. That's where I came in. Me, and five other unlucky men.

A researcher by the name of William Birkin had created what had been dubbed the G-virus. I didn't know what it was, or for that matter what it did. Nor did I care. We weren't paid to ask questions. All we were paid to do was to intercept Birkin before he had an opportunity to take off with his creation.

Most of the researchers and scientists underneath the city knew about us. And those who didn't, we avoided. It had to be fast and quiet. We made our way in through the sewer system which was a strait shot to the lab complex. It was the proverbial back door to the facility. There was no room for error. There was nothing that would foul this up. Not that this was a difficult mission. With snatch and grab missions, the target never sees you coming until its too late for them.

While the other men guarded our escape, myself and another soldier went into the underground labyrinth of lab tunnels to get to Birkin. Looking back, there are a thousand ways that the mission could have gone. And lucky us, we had to pick the one that ended in disaster.

I remember that we found the main lab. Myself and the other soldier stepped through the doorway as soon as the door slid up into the ceiling. Within several seconds we each heard the sound of the hammer on a gun being drawn and we sighted on the source. With our MP5's in hand, we had Birkin in our sights as he pointed a pistol at us.

"There he is" the other soldier said.

"So, you've finally come" Birkin glared at us, moving back slowly.

With his other hand, he was sliding a metal case across the lab counter, walking backwards as he did so. This didn't have to end violently, we could still try to talk the man down. After all, he was a valuable asset to the company. But if push came to shove, we'd be putting holes in him. It was an uneasy stand off, but then again, there are never any easy standoffs. And I knew it wouldn't end well for the good doctor. We had automatic weapons, body armor and orders to take the sample by force if needed. He had a pistol and nothing else. The odds were quite stacked against him.

Thinking rationally, I tried to talk him down. "Doctor, we're here to collect the G-virus sample"

Birkin shook his head and smirked at us, a sense of reckless defiance floated into his voice "Sorry, but I won't just hand over my life's work"

He continued to back away and we cautiously closed the distance on him. Then, something clattered to the floor, taking Birkin's attention away from us. He gasped at the sudden action. I can't tell whether the other soldier took this as an opening or an act of aggression but he opened fire.

I can remember the sound of automatic gun fire ripping through the room. Dark, red holes appeared in the doctor's white lab coat as he was thrown backwards by the force of the rounds tearing into him. He flailed and cried out before I was able to halt the soldier's fire.

"Stop! You might hit the sample!" I said, placing my hand on the top of his weapon, and halting his fire. I almost registered the sound of the doctor hitting the ground.

I walked over to where Birkin sat on the ground, bleeding heavily from the wounds in his upper right torso. I knew right away that he wasn't going to make it. Many of the rounds had hit him in the right side, a few may have even hit a lung. The man would bleed out in minutes or asphyxiate on the blood that seeped into his lungs. He looked at me weakly as I stared down at the case on the table. I instantly knew what it was.

"That's it alright" I said to the other soldier. "Okay, let's move out"

A call came in over the radio "Alpha team, have you retrieved the sample yet?"

"Affirmative" I answered. "We'll be at the rendezvous point in one minute"

"Roger" the other man replied.

The memories get hazy at this point. All I can recall is that the other soldier and I were making our way through the sewer system. We were about to round a corner and the next thing I knew, something hit me in the side, hard. I felt a rib break and my weapon being knocked out of my hand as we both stumbled back down the tunnel. We looked and saw something. There were a lot of things that could have been expected. But this was something else. It was big and not human. It _could_ have been human. It was wearing pants and some sort of white garment on its torso. The fabric was ripped and shredded. But the creature's size was too disproportionate. Its right side was bigger than the rest of it. The skin was a pale, almost violet shade. The head was what gave it a human appearance. A messy mop of dirty blond hair was what gave it away. But I could see something in the thing's eyes that made the word 'human' the last thing that should have registered in my mind. I knew the look. The creature wanted something.

Blood.

It screamed, consumed in what could only be considered an animal rage.

Cupping my side and holding onto the case, I screamed "Shoot it!"

"EAT THIS YOU FREAK!" the other man yelled before letting loose a blast from his weapon.

I yelled something to him but he didn't hear me. For whatever reason he yelled back, "I'M STOPPING IT!"

A second later his weapon went dry.

"What is this thing?" I asked, my voice heard only to myself.

We had been taught how to deal with a lot of Umbrella's problems. Most of them involved using a wide variety of firearms. The thing that was coming after us wasn't being affected by the small arms fire of the MP5. And to make matters worse, we were running out of space, the thing was backing us into a corner. I noticed a ladder to my left, leading up somewhere. Looking back I saw the creature _mutate_ further and form claws on it's right hand. And it truly looked ready to use them. The situation didn't look good for either of us. I had to think fast, which is why I did what I did next.

Cutting my losses, I let the other man distract the monster long enough to open the case and grab one of the samples within. Then, while the monster was still busy with him, I climbed up the ladder, leaving the case full of samples behind. I looked back just in time to see the creature drive what could only be described its claws through the soldier's chest. Whatever the creature was or had once been, human or otherwise, it had enough force to drive its hand through the man. It was one of the few times in my life when I'd actually felt a twitch of fear.

YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHH!

I can still remember the sound. He screamed out in agony as he was lifted up in the air, thick streams of blood raining down onto the monster. That was all I needed to see in order to know I had to get my ass out of there. I climbed and just kept going, trying to remember how to double back and make my way back out of the sewer system. Behind me I could hear the sound of more gunfire, no doubt coming from the backup men. Eventually it stopped and then all I could hear was the sound of one man's final screams of pain and terror. I ran for so long before my own pain and fatigue caught up with me. At some point, I couldn't take it anymore and all I remember was blackness as I passed out, dark water coming to meet me as I fell.

Sometime later I woke up. I was dazed and groggy. And still in a world of pain. I couldn't tell if I'd been lying in the sewer water for minutes, hours or even days. I pushed myself up and checked my surroundings. That's when I noticed that I still had the G-virus sample in my hand. I knew I had a job to finish. I had to bring it to Umbrella. Now was not the time to puss out. Thinking quickly I grabbed the radio from my side, thanking that it was still working

"Alpha team here. Mission accomplished" I said.

"Roger. We'll rendezvous at the meeting point" the pilot waiting for me responded almost immediately.

Good, I hadn't been out _that long_. They were still waiting for us. I had to get to the roof of the station as fast as I could. I made my way up a set of metal stairs and towards a hydraulic door. I knew where I was now as I opened the door. The station wasn't too far off. The second I stepped past the door I was met with an unforeseen setback. Within the room were people, civilians. Only, they weren't really people. Not anymore.

There is only so much information that is available to people like us. When it came to Umbrella, information was a commodity that was given out to only those that needed it. Because of where I was in the company, secrets weren't especially easy to keep. We all knew about the incident at the Arklay Mountains site and what had been the cause of it.

The T-virus was, at the time, Umbrella's crowning achievement. Personally, I don't give a rat's ass as to why it was created. In this world, actions which were the caliber of Umbrella's were generally motivated by money. That, or something much more evil. But the world didn't seem to care whether or not I gave a shit. Regardless, I still experienced enough or was briefed on enough to put two and two together.

The T-virus was a way for Umbrella to create living weapons. In actuality they were laboratory monsters. I call them weapons because that's what Umbrella intended them to be. Once they had gotten where they wanted them, the men in the white coats injected their virus into the subjects. The package may have looked different, but the product was always the same. Vicious, blood thirsty creatures that only knew one thing. Killing. All that was required was to point them in the right direction. Like a guided missile. I respected that in some way.

There was just one little setback with the virus. Humans weren't intended to have the virus introduced into their system. That sure as hell didn't stop Umbrella from testing it on people. The results were similar to the monsters that had been created, but a lot less marketable.

If there was one thing that I've taken to heart during my life, it's that knowledge is power. Any opportunity to obtain knowledge is a golden opportunity. I have lived a long time and have had many chances to learn. Every chance there has been, I've taken. You could quiz me on any subject from weapons, history, medicine, anatomy, and even literature. There's a very good chance that I'd surprise you with what I know. Either that, or I'd scare you.

In order to understand the T-Virus, you have to understand virology and pathogens. The virus operated similar to most other viruses, but also had the ability to animate dead tissue, to substantially mutate its host, and to infect nearly any tissue in any type of host. With humans, the mutations were produced when the virus incorporated itself into the host's RNA and considerably altered it. It animated dead tissue by killing and replacing any mitochondria in infected cells, and then combining with those cells to produce enough energy for motor and lower brain functions it required. By doing this, most of the human body's systems, such as the circulatory or respiratory systems, were made obsolete. However, the virus had the drawback of severe necrosis in the host. Not only that, but any subject infected by the T-virus would cause the host to lose any sense of reasoning, making it driven completely by instinct. Usually the need to feed.

I don't like to use certain words. There is a fine line between myth and reality. But when those lines become too hazy, sometimes it's best to forgo such misgivings and just say what's on our minds. Sometimes, you have to state the obvious. The viral outbreak had turned the people into zombies.

The people in the room just seemed to stand there, off in a daze. Through my goggles I could see that there was something extremely wrong. They just swayed back and forth. There was blood on their clothes and something that could only be described as a discoloring of the skin. The closest person had their back turned to me. I could tell it was a woman by the figure and the mid-length hair cut. The bike shorts and halter top were also a dead giveaway as she turned around to face me.

She was slow and sluggish. Almost like she was limping or sick. Both were essentially true, but for the wrong reasons. The look on her face was like looking at a drunk, or a junkie, only worse. Even though I could only see in shades of red I could see that the woman's face was just as discolored as the rest of her skin. It also looked like she had been chewing on something that stained her mouth. I knew instantly that I was blood. It was all my mind would allow me to fathom. There was no color to her eyes. They were stark white, glazed and soulless. There was no life in this person.

She lurched towards me, with her arms out stretched. Like she needed me in the worst possible way. But I knew better. I understood what had happened. I had been out for _far too_ goddamn long. During that time, everything had seemingly gone to hell. It didn't matter when, how or who but an outbreak of Umbrella's virus had occurred. That meant my job just got a hell of a lot harder.

There was something extra that we were briefed on regarding the T-virus. _There were several means of infection_. The simple way was that the virus could be injected strait into the subject. But it could also be airborne and water borne. The most important thing that I took away from the briefing was that the virus was also transferred through bodily fluids. In other words, one bite from the carriers and I'd be infected. There was no fucking way I was going to let that happen. So I leveled my only remaining weapon, a magnum, at the infected woman's face as she opened her mouth and let out an inhuman moan and I let my finger tighten on the trigger.

The way the bullet impacted the woman's head, you'd think a watermelon had exploded. The creature's whole body was thrown into a spasm as the round hit it, the arms flailed out to the side in a quick, jerky motion and the body stopped in its tracks. Compliments of the force of the bullet. One second there was a head and the next, skull, brain matter, and all manner of gore flew in every direction, painting the walls and floor as it collided with a wet, slapping sound. What was left was nothing more than a body with traces of the spine sticking out of the torso. The body then managed to walk another two steps before the lack of a head caught up to it, and it collapsed to the floor with a thud. A dark pool of blood oozed out of the neck and started to trail towards me.

Three more shots and three more headless corpses later, all male, and I had a clear path out. But as I soon found out, there was a sum of other obstacles within the area. I wasn't scared. But what I was, was working on borrowed time. I had to get the sample of Birkin's virus out of Raccoon, and fast. That was, if I could survive to the rendezvous point. Time seemed to blend together as I avoided or killed what was in my way while I ran the gauntlet. I didn't know how long it took to get from the sewers to the top of the police precinct. All I knew was that the outbreak in full effect. There was a varied collection of things that had overrun the building. More virus carriers from the city, police dogs, and even a few of the genetic experiments that, for whatever reason, were plaguing the area as well. If the police station was as bad as it was, I couldn't even begin to think of what the rest of the population was going through. Or at least, what was left of it.

The only reason for this was because I didn't have the time or the ammo to take out a city. My only concern was getting out of the shit-hole with the virus sample and my life. To hell with everyone else.

After what seemed like forever, and going through three fourths of my ammunition taking out whomever and _whatever_ got in my way, I made it to the roof of the precinct and hailed my ride. The mission was accomplished and the survival rate was only four percent. Valuable human resources were lost. But that is war.

**III**

Part of me wondered if delivering the G-virus, something that had the capacity to reproduce the events in Raccoon, to Umbrella was wise. Then I remembered that it wasn't my place to question or make such a decision. I had a job to do and I did it. The possibility was very real that the G-virus could cause something very similar to the Raccoon incident. Which, incidentally, was one of the reasons why I chose to complete my mission. Outside of the fact that I had orders, I knew that if there existed a chance that things would become totally fucked again, I would be the one who would be called upon to clean up the mess.

You've got to respect someone who understands enough about business to exploit it. A vicious cycle. Like a snake that eats its own tail.

Unfortunately, Raccoon was the last straw for Umbrella. Once the city was nuked, everything went to hell even more so for the company. I saw enough to know that the shit was going to hit the fan in a big way. So I decided that the best thing to do was to drop off the face of the Earth and get the hell out of dodge. Even though it was Umbrella's problem, _I wasn't about to let them take me down with them._ I grabbed what I could and as much of it and took off. And sure enough, when Raccoon and everything else Umbrella is involved in gets traced back to them, they and everyone involved with them are going to be burned at the stake. Everyone except me. I had enough sense to get out and get out fast.

That was about four years ago. Which pretty much brings me to where I am now. Living off the grid isn't particularly hard. In order to keep people from finding you there are several rules that you have to abide by. No cell phones. No bank accounts or credit cards. Keep moving. Always moving. Leave no way for people to track you. No fingerprint of any kind. No tracks. But it continues to astound me how so many people are able to find me. They usually have some very good resources at their disposal if they want to look me up. If someone needs a mercenary to get something done I'm their man as long as the price is right.

A man's gotta eat.

I'm just about to put a slice of toast in my mouth when I hear, "EVERYBODY BE REAL FUCKING COOL, THIS IS A ROBBERY!"

"THAT'S RIGHT. ANYONE SO MUCH AS FUCKING SNEEZES AND YOU'LL BE SHITING BULLETS FOR A MONTH", a woman yells.

"For fuck's sake" I sigh as I look up from my plate.

The guy look's like he's in his late twenties. He's got a filthy, un-kept appearance about him. Brown, greasy hair that covers his ears. Ripped jeans and a faded t-shirt. And a green army jacket. The man looks like a reject from the Vietnam era, with a crazy, desperate look in his eyes. Probably on something. He's waving some type of handgun around as he shouts orders for the people to shut up and give him their wallets. Looking closer, I can see that it's a Walther P99. The guy's carrying a semi-auto.

There are three things in this world that really piss me off. One is having my meals interrupted. Two is being robbed. And the third infraction hasn't occurred yet.

The second gunman, or rather, gunwoman is near the same age as her partner. She has ratty, blond hair and dark, sullen eyes. Her features are haggard and worn and her attire is near the same as her friend. She wears a wife beater, baggy jeans and sandals. The woman looks like a crack whore. She's also carrying a weapon, backing up her friend. A Jericho 941 is in her hands.

With all the diners scared and under control, the man makes his rounds with an open backpack while his friend keeps the crowd under control. I watch him like a hawk, coldly trying to see what he does. As expected, each and every person deposits their wallet into it. The man does this, till he gets to me. He points his gun at me. Now the third thing that pisses me off has occurred.

"Give up the wallet man" he says, waving the gun in my face, haphazardly.

"You know, I really don't like having my meal interrupted. Nor do I prefer having gun's pointed at me" I tell him in a monotone voice.

"Well, too bad for you friend" he says, flipping me his middle finger while still holding onto the backpack. "But the sooner you give up the wallet, the sooner you can go back to enjoying your meal"

I just sit there, giving him a stone cold stare.

"I've been around the block a few times. This isn't the first time I've had a gun pointed at me"

"Then you should be used to this" he says, pulling back the hammer.

I look around and weigh my options. Then an idea comes into my head.

"Fine" I tell him, "You want the wallet? I'm gonna have to stand up to get at it"

He ponders this for a few moments before agreeing to it. Keeping the gun trained on my head, I get up and slowly move one hand to my back, keeping the other one up in the air. My hand moves to the gun in my waist band and I make a grab for the grip. I let it rest there, wondering if I can pull it out in time. I stop myself and then go for my wallet, pulling it out and holding it towards the man. The gun in his hand shakes as he reaches for it. The man's all nerves. No confidence. But he's also volatile.

With his partner's back turned, focused on the diners, I let my hand go from the gun to my wallet. I take it out and hand towards him. His hands shake as he reaches for it. Then, at the last second I drop it to the floor. I hits the tile with a 'slap'. The man looks stunned for a second, looking at me before he starts to stoop downwards, his weapon still trained on me. The man nears the wallet on the ground and grabs it. At the last second, he makes a fatal error. He takes his eyes off of me.

I'm quick. He doesn't even see it coming. I grab the gun, make sure it's not pointing at my chest and pull the man toward me by his wrist. As he comes at me, I knee him in the face hard enough that I hear his nose break. In five more seconds he's on his feet. I duck under his arm, wrench it back and drive my palm into his elbow, snapping the arm backwards and breaking it. He screams out as I, wrap an arm around him, take the gun from his hand and point it at his head just as the man's female companion turns around.

Immediately she sets to screaming at me, telling me to let him go while waving her gun at me. Luckily I have her friend in front to guard me.

"LET HIM GO. LET HIM GO OR ELSE I SWEAR TO CHIRST I'M GONNA FUCKING PLUG YOU FULL OF HOLES……"

She does this for a good two minutes while I try to think of a way out of the situation. Incidentally, I may have made an error of judgment. I put myself in a position where I could get myself hurt. But then again, sometimes you've got to show people that can't fuck with the wrong person. Lest they find themselves in this sort of situation.

"Just...t...take it ...easy man. We can talk about this" he stammers.

"Tell her to shut up. She's starting to get on my nerves" I tell the man, pressing the barrel into his temple.

"JUST SHUT UP BABY!" he yells, frightened.

She doesn't. The woman continues to wave her gun and scream, lost in rage. It's truly amazing what some people are reduced to given what they go through.

"Tell her to shut up friend" I tell him again.

"JESUS CHIRST, JUST SHUT UP HONEY!" he screams at her.

"LET HIM GO OR I'M GONNA FUCKING TURN THIS PLACE INTO A…." she screams.

I've had enough of this. I wanted her to shut up two minutes ago.

"SHUT THAT CUNT'S MOUTH OR I'M GONNA COME OVER THERE AND FUCK START HER HEAD!" I command.

"BABY JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he yells.

Immediately she stops. She's stunned, scared. These two are amateurs. I can tell because of the way they handle their firearms. Their eyes are jumpy, they wander. Their hands are shaking, leading me to believe that they've never been properly trained on the guns. As much as I can assume, they've just been using them for show up until now, even though they're loaded. She doesn't know what to do. She can't make a decision. I have them in a bargaining position.

In war, you hesitate and people die. Then again, people have a way of dying around me anyway.

The man I hold grits his teeth in pain and breathes heavily. Blood from his nose drips down past his mouth and onto my forarm. He's scared shitless. He's probably never had a gun put to his head.

"Okay, now that I have your attention, what is it going to take to solve our problem?"

"Let him go" she says, her eyes wide and crazy.

"Do I have both your words that you'll get the fuck out of here if I do?" I ask.

"No" she tells me, the weapon shaking in her hands.

"_Wrong answer"_ I think.

"Well, then we still have a problem" I say, eyeing her.

A man's scream grabs my attention and I look up to see the source of the commotion.

"For the love of God, just give em what they want. You're gonna get us all killed"

"Shut the fuck up asshole" I yell over to the man, "This isn't any of your business"

He does as I command, leaving me to go back and diffuse the situation.

"Now, since I have a gun to your friend's head, I'm the one calling the shots. If you're still having trouble getting caught up, allow me to help you. Personally, I don't give two shits about these people. But by bothering me with this shit you've just made a big ass fucking mistake. So here is what's going to happen." I tell the two of them in plain English, "One, is I'm going to take my wallet back. Two, you're going to leave. Those are your options"

"That's not gonna happen" the man I hold says.

Stubborn. He doesn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. They threatened my life and tried to rob me. Two things that I don't take kindly too. I will kill them both if I have to.

I pretend like I don't hear him, "If you don't like that plan, then your friend here is going to die"

"Don't you fucking dare" she says.

All of a sudden, I hear a door open to my left. Someone coming out of the bathroom. Time slows as it registers. Another man, dressed similar to the one I hold at gunpoint, sees us and grabs for something in the front of his waist band. I don't have time to look at his face. I'm more interested in the .44 magnum in his hands. I can only wonder why he's come out now, or how he couldn't hear the commotion. None of that matters. I'm not letting another person pull a gun on me this week.

Still holding the P99 to the man's head, my free arm lets go of the him and goes to the gun in my waist band. In two seconds, it's out and pointed at the third gunman. I squeeze off a round. The astounded man catches the bullet in the head. The round practically rips through the upper right side of his skull, tearing the side of his face and head off. Blood splatters the door he'd just come through as his body hits the ground.

The commotion causes the woman to snap and she unloads her weapon at me. What she didn't know was that I wasn't keeping her friend as a _hostage_. He makes a perfect _human shield_ as the rounds smack into his body and into the table behind us. The sound of wood and dishware shattering fills my ears. I turn my face away and duck down, letting him take the brunt of the attack until her weapon clicks dry. When it does, I shove the corpse out of the way and point the dead man's gun at her.

Her eyes go wide with shock as I pull the trigger three times, sending the bullets into her upper chest and one through her neck. Crying out, she's thrown violently back and onto the bar counter before falling to the floor with a thud. The diners in the room are all frozen in shock. All in all, this little skirmish has lasted less than a minute.

Stuffing my own weapon back into my pants, I walk over and kick the weapon out of her hand before leaning down. She's bleeding out. And choking on her own blood as well. Thick splotches of crimson start to spread out through her clothes and out of her mouth.

"Now, why didn't you say you had another accomplice?" I ask her to which all she can do is choke as a response. "Did it slip your mind? Did you forget that someone was in there with a goddamn hand cannon?"

I stand back up and am about to walk away when I feel her hand grab onto my pant leg. I look back and down at the terrified face of the woman.

"Am….am I …really…d…dying?" she asks, coughing up blood.

I take a moment to ponder this. Then I lean in close and whisper, "Lady, we're _all dying_"

I leave her on the floor to die as I pull out my wallet and flip through a few hundred dollar bills.

"This should pay for the meal and the mess" I say, setting the money on the counter near the register. The old woman behind the counter looks like she's ready to fall over. I put my wallet back in my pocket, adjust the gun in my waist and move to the door, leaving the startled, frightened patrons in their seats and the three dead bodies on the floor.

"Did not know who she was fucking with" I say before leaving, knowing that I won't have to worry about the police. It's quite easy for me to disappear. I owe it to the fact that I can just melt into a crowd or that nobody really pays attention to my face. Worse comes to worse, it's not the first time I've had to vanish.

It's a shame too. The place had good food.

I remember, one time, that the shrinks working at Umbrella tried to analyze me. I wasn't one to complain. It was company policy. They sat me down on one of those old, uncomfortable leather couches with the bolted-in upholstery and had some man who looked like Freud sit across from me. We talked for what seemed like hours, on various subjects. It was all psycho-analytical bullshit to try and get into my head. I know this, because it wouldn't be the first time that it had happened.

Once, when I was younger, the foster family that I was staying with had become worried at my apparent lack of empathy for human nature. They made me see a shrink and the results of the session were quite unsettling. To them at least. The words "apathetic, sociopathic, antisocial, schizoid" and a bunch of other mumbo-jumbo that I didn't understand at the time had come up. But what I _did _understand was what the shrinks and doctors didn't, or were too afraid to comprehend at the time. That a young boy had learned enough about the world and the people within it to see that all there really is in life is survival. People live, they die. End of story. Everything left in the world is just frosting on the cake. The sooner you get that through your head, the easier it is to process things and recover from them.

That is why the situation in Umbrella didn't faze me. Why any sane person would be suffering from post traumatic stress disorder after escaping from that hell. Which I won't deny. Raccoon City and everything in it was essentially Hell on Earth. Many people died and those that didn't were subject to horrors beyond their imagination. But where those people panicked and died, I endured. I took what I had learned and put it to use. And that use was to ensure my survival. Natural selection at it's finest. But perhaps the one good thing that got me through Raccoon was a tried and true life lesson that most people know, but no one bothers to acknowledge.

Human or not, everything dies.

**Author's note: Sorry for not getting this out sooner. I was experiancing a bit of writer's block with this chapter. Plus, I've been getting over a surgery. But it's done.**

**For anyone who played Resident evil 2, yes, there were ****five**** corpses in the sewers dressed like HUNK. This leads me to believe that there were six members to his team total including himself. We, as gamers, only saw four men during the cut scene.**

**A few lines are from Resident evil 2, Black Hawk Down (the book), Resident Evil (its opening narration), The Way of the Gun, and the last few paragraphs are **_**inspired**_** by the ending of Pulp Fiction.**


	3. I'm Shippin Up To Boston

**Preface: While this ****chapter is fictitious, ****parts of it are based on actual events****. Also, there are areas which I have taken liberties with certain dates, events and facts.**

**Faith in eternal life ceases — but death goes on.** Vladimir Jankélévitch

As a soldier, _a man of war_, one becomes attracted to certain missions. Like an unseen force drawing you to an unknown destination. Usually, the missions are anything from participating in another country's war to making snatch and grab missions. Whatever can test your skills. Anything that will make your existence as a man who knows nothing but war, mean something. More or less, any task where I can put a bullet into someone's head is fair game to me. If it will make me some money and further my living expenses then the chances are quite good that I'll take the job. No matter how dirty or extreme. For war is neither clean, calm or filled with rules. The side that fights dirty and harshly is the one that will and usually does succeed. When dealing with human morality, there are fine lines that many will not cross, no matter what situation that their put into. Even in war.

Me, I've crossed every one of those lines more than once.

That said, there are instances when a job will fall into one's lap. And while I try to lean toward what I specialize in, there are circumstances that call for someone to work in more _unconventional_ territory. And far be it from me to do this. But when the circumstances in question concern my need to keep on living and facilitating my life habits, well, I'll take a chance at a job.

But this was a much different matter.

I don't know what to expect as I enter the room but judging from the small symphony of voices, I can tell that there are at least three dozen men or perhaps more held within. My instincts don't fail me as I enter to find over fifty men seated in a small auditorium, much akin to the way many college classes are set up. Like a cross between a classroom and a movie theater. All the men are dressed comfortably, saving whatever battle dressings they have for the violent task which no doubt lies ahead. A few of them turn as they watch me enter and choose a seat near the back of the room.

This is common for me. If in the event that I decide that a mission isn't worth my time then it's important to make a quick exit. No sense that my time should be wasted anymore than it should be.

But I wait and bide my time. I'll at least give the people in charge the opportunity to explain their reason for requiring the services of myself and the men with me in this room.

Within a matter of minutes, three well dressed men in suits walk into the room and toward the podium at the center. The first man to reach the podium appears to be in his late fifties with an extremely short, grayed haircut. The true sign that a marine barber or someone similar must have touched that head.

He nears the center of the room, and speaks into the microphone affixed to the podium with a stern and forthcoming attitude, "Gentlemen, I thank you for your time and apologize in advance when I say that we will only be requiring the services of one of you", he says, his voice flowing through the speakers aligning the sides of the room allowing all to hear him.

Perfect. This tells me two things. One is that my time could be potentially wasted. And the obvious _number two_ is that they need one man for a mission. One man. Meaning that they're going to weed out the men who aren't qualified. Meaning that the man they do choose will be a specialist. _And highly compensated_.

"My name is Major Christopher Ward with international affairs and standing with me are special agents Croft and Duffy with British Intelligence" he says, extending an arm toward the two stoic men standing beside him. "For the sake of time we will be asking you a series of questions to determine which of you is the most appropriate man for this mission. Those of you who are not chosen or feel you are not up to the task must leave immediately"

It would be worth noting that if there exist any files on myself or anyone else in this field, then they certainly do not contain every speck of information about us. That would be troublesome and time consuming. Hence the lack of confidentiality that the men are using to get their answers.

My interest just became peaked. Something that's usually very difficult to accomplish. I continue to listen as the men in front of us begin their questionnaire.

"How many of you were raised Catholic?"

I've studied religion extensively in my days in order to obtain social cultural data when the mission needed it. I also had the fortune, _or misfortune_ depending on who's asked, of having done a brief stint as an alter boy in my youth. This of course, was under the wishes of the foster family I was staying with at the time. Needless to say, while the teachings stuck with me, the influences did not.

Every man, myself included, raises his hand in response to the question.

"Very good" Ward says. "Now, how many of you attended or still do attend mass?"

About half of the room lowers their hands. I watch as those that do, rise from their seats and walk out of the room. When the men have left, the questions continue.

"How many of you were alter boys or understand the duties of a priest or pastor?"

The rest of the men let their hands fall and leave the room save for myself and five others. In my mind I think '_small world'_. I also wonder whether or not to throw the bullshit flag with these remaining men before remembering that I know nothing about them, or they me. But if they are lying, the men in charge will discover the façade sooner or later.

"Now the last, and perhaps the most important question", Major Ward asks. "Which of you are familiar with Latin?"

Human language is quite intriguing. It's been around for centuries and there are hundreds of thousands of variations to it. Over the ages it is formed, adapts and changes. It is adopted and integrated. And sometimes it dies. And rots. Yet even after it dies some parts of it remain, like ghosts of the past to remind us of what once was. But most of the time it just dies. Dead languages are hard to hold onto. Not many are familiar with them.

I am.

I look and see that the other men drop their hands.

"_Ah, shit"_ I think to myself as the pieces of the puzzle come together.

An informal process of selection, yet it gave the men in charge the results that they were looking for.

For this mission, they needed a man. A man who was raised Catholic, was familiar with the mass and those that hosted it, and most importantly, spoke Latin. Even before my orders were given I knew what was to be expected of me. I could see it coming strait at me like 50 caliber bullet from a mile away.

**Several hours later.**

I stare out over the Atlantic Ocean as the plane flies across the waters. My eyes shift focus and I find myself staring back at my own reflection. It's funny. I can hardly even recognize myself. I feel as though I'm looking at a doppelganger or some kind of evil twin. But then my mind pushes the thoughts out of my head and it reminds me. It reminds me that I'm still myself, even if it doesn't appear that way.

My dirty blond hair has been cut and trimmed back and my face is smoother than it's ever been. By that I'm referring to the fact that this is the first time in a good long while that I've actually shaved. The only thing that stays constant is the garment I wear. Black as the night sky but in someway, more alien than I could have ever conceived.

My prediction did not deviate from what the men in charge had in store for me.

The face that stares back at be from the window is that of a well groomed priest. A member of the church. A proxy of God.

Well at least that's what the people of Belfast, Ireland will think.

I let my mind wander back to the briefing room several hours ago. The men sat me down and explained the outline of the mission.

Now, I had taken some strange and unconventional missions in the past. Once, I spent an entire week in the mountains of Afghanistan with nothing but a high powered sniper rifle, four days supply of food and a hole in the ground to shit in.

But this. This is something entirely new.

"Father Matthew Flannagen was accidentally killed by the IRA several weeks ago in a car bombing. A native of Ireland, Flannagen had been weeks away from transferring from his mission work in mainland Europe to Northern Ireland. Primarily in Belfast, right in the heart of the IRA's territory" Major Ward had explained.

It seemed that there was trouble brewing in Belfast. The IRA is a group in Northern Ireland that wishes an end to the British rule of their piece of the world. While most of Ireland itself is independent, Northern Ireland still remains under the control of Britain. And like most sensible organizations, the IRA's primary means of meeting their goals are through acts of terrorism. The group has done numerous acts to make their point. Sometimes it's been hunger strikes. But normally they resort to a war of attrition against enemy personnel, based on causing as many deaths as possible so as to create a demand towards the British for their withdrawal from Ireland. They've used bombings of finacial districts, murders of Protestants, car bombs and gun fights as a means of declaring their independence.

Hence the reason why they've been labeled as a terrorist group by the U.K. and parts of Europe. And it seemed as thought the situation was becoming more than the local police, British special forces or even INTERPOL could handle. Even resorting to placing informers within the IRA was having no luck as the men were quickly becoming wise to that scheme With all the available resources, there was still no way to get enough evidence on a faction like the IRA in order to persecute as many as were involved. Push came to shove, like it always does, and the people in charge needed a specialist to get the job done. Only the job this time was not of the 'going in guns blazing' variety that I'm used to. No, this time around the mission required subtly.

"Through a stroke of luck" the Major continued, "we were able to intercept this news and use it to our advantage. All information regarding the incident has been kept from whatever family Flannagen has. But it won't last forever. His body is currently being kept on ice and we have secured his identity and legal documentation. Now, the man is not a native of Belfast, so the people there aren't familiar with him. What we have here is a window of opportunity to use to our advantage against the IRA in order to track down some key members and put a serious dent in their activities"

This time, I would be going in undercover. I was to adopt the persona of Father Matthew Flannagen, a man that the town of Belfast had never even met before. The Major and the men from British Intelligence had a plan. Their rationale was that in a part of the world where the population are church going people, there is a high chance that those in the IRA would go to confession in order to ask forgiveness of their 'sins'. With only a member of the church to confess to who intern can not divulge the information that they are given, there's no danger of being caught. Only problem, is that I'm not a real priest.

The whole idea behind the mission was sneaky and underhanded. Which was partially why I took it.

It only took an hour and a half to get myself cleaned up and have the necessary clothes tailored to my measurements. Another hour was all that was required to perfect my Irish brogue. The accent was flawless, even by military standards. Then it was just a matter of running through a traditional Latin mass.

They gave me a small laptop computer and recording device which can link up to it the same way that a USB flash drive can. State of the art. All that needed to be done was send the recorded files through an encrypted channel back to those in charge. They also hooked me up with a miniature camera to install in a confessional booth in order to capture whomever comes through.

And there you have it. Instant evidence.

The only factor that I didn't agree with was that I would not be armed. That did not sit well with me at all. Nor did the idea of staying out of whatever conflict was going on. What kind of soldier sits on the sidelines during a war? Or even goes into battle without a weapon?

If the pay wasn't so good, I wouldn't have taken the job. Regardless, I'd have to adapt. I had to tell myself that I'd worked with less in the past and come through with the mission. And given the area of the world that I'd be travelling to, even amongst all the death and fighting, a pastor is untouchable. A church is the one place that the IRA wouldn't dare harm or come into a conflict with. Which is why the plan comes together so flawlessly.

Seven hours later and I'm in this plane headed for Northern Ireland. And I'm staring at a face that I hardly even recognize. The only things that remain the same are my eyes. In someway, even without my mask, I can still visualize the red eyes. The eyes of a killer.

The eyes of a devil.

By the time I land, it's two in the afternoon. Stepping off the plane and into the airport, I'm greeted by a small faction of two nuns. A holy greeting for a complete stranger.

At five foot seven, Sister Mcgrath is the eldest of the two. A warm middle aged woman of about thirty seven. Her robes and head dressings are that of a traditional nuns outfit. Despite the welcome I receive there is something off about her. Even for a woman as young as herself, she seems to carry an air of fatigue and unrest in her spirit and face that seems as though it should not exist. A sense that seems to age her far beyond her years. Like a mother that has lost too many children and despite all the hardships, has continued to move on. Propelled by nothing more than her ever retaining belief in her God, no doubt.

Sister Sinclair is the younger nun. Several inches taller than Sister Mcgrath her face is warm and inviting. Sparkling blue eyes show out from a rosy face and a touch of amber red hair pokes traces from beneath her head covering. A can see traces of naivety in her young, twenty seven year old face. Her clothes cling to her a bit more tightly than that of her companion, giving me a chance to view her lithe figure. My mind breaks for a few seconds to chase the impure thoughts that race through my psyche. I dismiss them as fast as they come, reminding myself of the mission at hand.

After a barrage of embraces and extended greetings, they take me through the airport terminal, all smiles. Seemingly unaware of my true intentions.

Over and over I hear them state how blessed they are that a new face is coming to preach God's word to their people. It's the only sound that comes out of their mouths as they lead me out to a waiting car. That and the endless string of questions they have about their new member of their clergy.

"How was the trip Father?"

"Are ye excited about your new home?"

"We can not wait to have ye preach the good Lord's word to our congregation"

"Such a blessing that ye've come to these parts of Ireland"

"Horrible times we've had this year. So many friends to be buried in the past weeks"

Meaningless conversation. My only true concern is that of the mission. In getting the information that I came for, getting out and never setting foot in the country ever again unless paid to do so. I just let the sound go in one ear and out the other, letting them hear the answers that they want to hear as the countryside passes us by. It's funny, in all my years of living and traveling on this planet, Northern Ireland doesn't look any different.

It's cold and gray here, like something dark rests over this land. Even with the rich greenery of the hills and mountains, the sky is completely overcast which is only accentuated by the bare trees of the area. They stand out, like skeletons of the lush forests that they once were, serving to reinforce the fact that this is a land of turmoil. Certainly no place for blossoming life. We pass through the town on the way to my lodgings. Similar to many European towns, a good number of shops and homes reside here. each sits about two or three stories in height. And each is seemingly identical. Same brick work, same windows, same roofing. Carbon copies of copies, of copies. Like a bad sense of déjà vu.

After some time the nuns drop me off at 'my house' and bid me a fond farewell until the next mass. The place is like something you would see out of an old travelling magazine. It brings the term 'country cottage' into a whole new light. The small, quaint two-story home is made up of aging brick. A tall chimney sits at the top, looking like it hasn't been used for some time. In essence, it appears to be nothing more than one of those little cabins one would see in a British country side.

I go in and diligently get to work. Setting my belongings in the bedroom, out of site from anyone who may decide to stop by, I walk to the kitchen. Imagine my distaste upon discovering that the whole house is dry as a bone. Not a drop of alcohol anywhere.

Perfect. I'd worry about that latter. In Ireland, one didn't have to go far to find booze. But for right now, I had something to keep me occupied.

It takes me the next two days to go through the house from top to bottom, looking for bugs or wire tapping. It's not like I expect there to be anything worth my concern. But when you've lived as long as I have you start to take extra precautions. I never know when vital information could be leaked or when telephone conversations could be intercepted.

Two days of ripping up floor boards, removing lighting fixtures, taking apart a kitchen and living area, tearing mirrors off the walls and generally going through the house with a fine tooth comb. After all the work of going through it and putting it all back together for the sake of appearances, I turn up nothing. The house is clean.

I then set up the equipment that was provided and prepare for the task that lies ahead of me. I have a feeling deep inside me, like a whirlwind that is slowly starting to build. It tells me that there is a long haul ahead of me. I can only hope that it is all worth the wait.

**EIGHT MONTHS LATER**

_**Translated from Latin**_

X "Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, they will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses. As we forgive those who trespass against us. And leas us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thy is the kingdom, the power and the glory our yours, now and forever" X

Amen.

I stand before the congregation of people like I've done for the past several months, dressed in a minister's robes, repeating the same prayers and leading them the same way. And they answer back in their same answers.

The same, always the same. Like a broken record that challenges me. Taunts me into keeping it broken.

Eight months later and I'm almost ready to go off the deep end. At first I figured that I would be able to handle this, that I could work through it. I would have been foolish to think that this would be a quick mission. Taking on someone else's identity is a long process. I'm good with _routine_. I'm good with doing the same thing over and over for days on end. But what I'm not good with is the lack of aggression and violence. The complete abolishment of everything that I've done to sculpt myself into the soldier that I know I am. If I'd known it would be like this, I would have never taken the job. This is no task for a soldier. It's meant for a fucking pencil pusher.

Eight months of the same church and prayers. Same food and room and board. Same people and town and daily trials. It's all so static. So different from what I'm used to. No alterations or divergence from the path at hand. There's nothing to shake things up.

It gets worse day by day. Things seem to slip away when I least expect it. The time eats away at me like a termite to a dead tree stump. And there's something there. Something that until recently I didn't even know existed. It's an urge, a will to fight. Like an itch that I can't seem to scratch. The only thing that keeps me going some days are the exercises and CQC drills that I practice. Other days it's using kitchen utensils as weapons against unseen assailants. Ghost practice. And on extremely hard days it takes me going deep into the wilderness, away from the town and its people, to hunt down whatever game that I can. Just so I can feel what's there. To know that I'm just as good a soldier that I've always been. I do everything and anything to keep my mind and my abilities sharp.

But at times it's not enough. Sometimes, I require more.

I lay in my bed at nights staring up at the ceiling. Some nights I can hear the distant sound of a bomb detonating or rapid gunfire going off. It's painful, so incredibly painful. Not because it causes me to lose sleep or because it frightens me. It's because while the people here can just rise to the new day, the sounds of war that I know await call to me. Call to me like the angels I falsely preach about.

It calls for me to fight, and all I can do is stay and obey the orders that I've been given. I can't let myself forget my mission. And I can't allow myself to blow my cover. And through it all, I must endure.

The church wants you in your place. Kneel, stand. Kneel, stand. One goes for that sort of thing, I don't know what to do for them. A man makes his own way. No one gives it to you. You have to take it. When you decide to be something, you can be it. That's what they don't teach you in the Church.

"Father Flannagen?"

I snap out of whatever dream that I found myself in and turn to look at the child. The kid is about ten years old with ashy brown hair, freckles and a gap in between his front teeth. Sean is the alter boy that I've been working with in the congregation for the past several months. After we clean up from the mass the kid persists in 'talking God' with me for the next hour and a half or so. Looking for guidance, answers and attention. An orphan, he looks up to me like a father that he does not have. So ingrained in what I have to say without even knowing that all I'm doing is spoon feeding him lies and false hopes. A kind, young boy. That's his problem. Even among all the death that surrounds him, he still remains naïve. Naïve of the truth.

And the truth is, that in this world, no one is going to look out for him. In this world, the only person that you can count on to survive is yourself. Just worry about yourself. And fuck everyone else.

But I have to humor him for the time being. I go through the motions as much as it annoys the hell out of me. I keep my façade up. I can't forget my mission. I can't afford to make any errors. One mistake. One mistake is all that's required for the mission to go belly up at the last second. Even if it's seconds away from completion.

After Sean retires home, I set to wait in the confessional box along the western side of the church, closest to the town. Closest to the war.

Sooner or later they come. Some days there is no one and others there are many. All men, and sometimes woman come to confess their sins. I sit and listen to an endless stream of bullshit waiting for what I came for. And eventually I hear it.

A pub bombing.

A gun battle.

A murder.

A car bombing.

And even, to my amusement, news that a few of the nuns in the parish are experimenting sexually with each other.

Wonders never cease. All sins are revealed to me. Me and my equipment.

An endless string of problems that for all intents and purposes should not exist in a place where the people put such a stake on religion and God.

Hours upon hours of IRA information are mine. Mine to use against these people that put their faith and trust in me without them even knowing that in this world, you shouldn't trust anyone.

But sometimes trust comes forward at the most unlikely of times. For the most unfathomable circumstances.

Later in the day, I'm in a poor mood as confession time draws to a close. That is, until Mary Kelly comes to pay me a visit. Mary's one of the parishioners that attends the church. She's in her late thirties with wavy brown hair which reminds me of a sheep dog. Her eyes tell me more than anything about her. Their usually blackened or freshly puffy and red, as if someone has been beating on her and letting her cry at different intervals. She does her best to try and hide it, to cover it up. But I see it just as clearly as everyone else does. But maybe people just don't want to say anything. They prefer to keep their business their own.

Smart move.

Mary enters the confessional box and immediately I hear her light sobs.

For whatever reason I ask her, "My child, what is the problem"

She hesitates for a few moments before replying, "Oh Father, it's my husband. I just don't know what to do with 'im anymore. Ye' see, he has a habit of getting drunk. Which is normal. I mean, all of bloody Ireland has its good share of pints. But Father, my husband, sometime he just becomes possessed. He goes out of his mind and he hits me. I just….."

I don't know why I cared. I could have just fed her some bullshit about how the Lord works in mysterious ways. He 'giveth and he taketh away' or some bible thumping philosophical fucking bullshit like that. I could tell her to say three Hail Mary's and just send her on her way. But after months of doing nothing I feel the urge to do just the opposite.

"My child", I tell her, "Stop yer confession right there"

"Father?" she questions, sniffling.

"Have your husband come pay me a visit and I'll have a talk with the man. I promise that everything will be all right"

After that, Mary leaves somewhat dumbfounded and a few days later there's a knock on the door. I open it to find a man who's a few inches shorter than me with sandy blond hair. His face looks sunken and weathered, like a fisherman who's had a stroke of bad luck. I also notice the gigantic beer belly on the man. No doubt this is Mary's husband. Come to pay the good Father a visit.

I lead him inside the chapel and down a stone walkway towards the rectory. With him behind me, I count the steps, biding my time. There's no one else inside the church who will disturb us. It's just him, and me and the 'good Lord'. Just the way I want it.

I don't know what pushes me to do what I'm doing. I might never know. It could be the immense, fucking boredom that I've experienced, sitting on the sidelines of a war torn country. It could be that several months of acting like something I'm not has finally gotten to me. That the soldier inside of me is finally bursting through. Or maybe I just want to feel something again. Feel what it's like to have a man's life in my hands, knowing that in a split second I can take it away and send him to whatever god he chooses. I tell myself that this is reckless and stupid. That it goes against everything I know and have been taught. I scream that by doing this I blow my cover. But I can't stop.

Slowly, I reach for the nine millimeter in my waist band and pull back the hammer till it clicks into place. Then, in the blink of an eye, I pull it out. Before he even knows what's happened, I have the barrel of the gun right between his eyes. The man goes stiff, like a deer in headlights. He's filled with fear and disbelief as his mind tries to comprehend what's happening.

"Now, I'm gonna say this very fuckin clearly" I growl. "You so much as lay a finger on ye'r wife again, I see so much as a chipped nail and I swear to Jesus Christ the Almighty that I will pull this fuckin trigger"

His eyes change for a few seconds, like a man who's pondering the severity of an extreme situation. Like a man who may very well be pushing his own dwindling luck. As if luck ever really played a factor in war.

"Ye think I'm bluffing, try me. If ye thought the IRA could fuck your shit up, wait till ye see what I do. When I'm done, they won't even find ye"

I lower the weapon and allow the man and myself to silently part ways. I don't even stop to think of the repercussions. I know exactly how it will all play out.

At the next mass, Mary comes up to me with tears in her eyes. At first I thought my little stunt hadn't had the effect that I intended it to. Then she opens her mouth and tells me that her husbands been "right as rain" ever since he talked to me.

"I don't know what ye did, Father. But he's been better to me than ever before. I can't thank ye enough"

For some reason, I sleep a little better that night.

And after all that, it still doesn't change my perception of the mission. Nothing was this monotonous. Not when I was in the Rangers, not when I was at Rockfort, _and certainly not when I was working for Umbrella_. At least when I was doing that, I was doing something interesting. I was doing something that gave my life some meaning. Nothing was repetitious. Every task allowed me to be what I am. A war machine.

This? This was just tedious and sad.

After two months of standing up there I had a realization. Something that had been dwelling in my mind life the dying ember of a fire that suddenly bursts into a glorious flame. A fact that most people are aware of but many never see. Like a shroud pulled over their eyes. And the fact is that there isn't much difference from a president to a dictator. Not much separates Hitler from a priest. Their all just men standing at a podium, leading the masses. Just men leading mindless people.

A sheppard tends to his flock. And it dawns on me that I am nothing more than a wolf in a sheep's clothes.

Jesus Christ died for the sins of mankind. Some would call that a mistake. In the following years, His example, His sacrifice did nothing to deter the evils that men have since laid waste on this world. And that is why it is necessary to make examples out of those who continue to commit such acts. To let them go down the same path that Christ did. To let them die for their own sins.

But I wait and bide my time, knowing that my time will come. I just have to be at the right place at the right time.

**Several weeks later**

I walk through the streets to get another weeks supply of food when it happens.

SHHHHHHBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

The explosion is close enough that the shock wave knocks me to the ground. I shake it off, get up and take off running towards the plum of black smoke in the near distance. This time I'll be there. This time, I'll get to scrounge through the rubble of a bombing before any of the local authorities or the IRA can get to it. It's a chance to acquire a little more evidence.

"_You are not to get involved in anyway. You will maintain your cover at all times"_

The Major's word's echo through my head and I hang onto them, knowing that I'm not getting involved. I merely aim to investigate. Anything to break up the monotony. In and out. No slacking off or staying around longer than I have to. A walk in the park more or less.

I run as fast as I can, attempting to get to the site before the authorities or other townsfolk are able to get a glimpse of the scene. I know it's a lost cause. Those closest are most likely picking through what's left. Gunfire erupts not far from the scene, off to the west. The sharp 'bap, bap, bap, bap" sounds of rapid, automatic gunfire. It's close, too close. There's a battle going on in this town. And I'm running strait into the middle of it.

Some things never change.

The town blows past me in blurs and odd shapes, everything running together like a water color painting. I don't take anything in really as my vision tunnels towards my destination. It's an odd feeling really. Like one is outside, looking in. being so close to a battle but never really touching it. Like being on the edge of a hurricane while all the turbulence is only miles away. Too me it feels wrong. But I have my orders. And that's what I have to stick by. For the mission's sake.

Astoundingly, I'm the only one to arrive. The sounds of the fighting are a few blocks down and from the hisses and snaps I hear, moving closer to me. I have to act fast, picking through what I can in order to find any sort of evidence or things of the sort. A ridiculous venture. Nothing remains except the hollowed out shell of the building. Like a huge black beast ate its way out from the womb of the building. The front of what used to be a pub has all but vaporized. What's left is nothing more than three walls, thick with blackened grunge from the explosion. Several fires smolder within. Timbers hang loosely from the remnants of the roof. But this is only a sample of what truly lay before me.

What I see was familiar and at the same time, a complete anomaly. After all these years, I discovered that there are still some things that I could never truly get used to.

The smell is over powering. I bring my arm to my mouth and nose, covering it in hopes of diminishing the putrid airs chances of getting in to my lungs but to no avail. It takes everything I have to try and breathe through my mouth. A mix of burned wood and acrid chemicals. A swirl of concrete and stone dust is added to the mix to provide the gravelly aftertaste. But this pales in comparison to the other more powerful stench. A stench of cooking meat, hair and bone. The bodies of the people that were inside when the bomb detonated are thick and burned. The explosion turned the corpses into ashen shadows of their former selves. All around I see limbs, entrails and splashes of blood on what remains of the bar or furniture. Upon closer inspection I see that the intact corpses are charred black, skin taught around their frames.

It never changes. The smell gets to me. I vomit and wipe my mouth before looking again. Charred skulls open to scream silently in their last frozen moment. Casualties of a war that they never….

A hint of metal catches my eye within the rubble of the darkened building. I rush over and move a few pieces of smoking wood to find a Browning 45 in the mess. Amazingly, it's completely unharmed and fully loaded. Someone must have been carrying. All the more to my advantage. I'm just about to continue looking through the mess of wood and bodies when I hear it.

"WHO ARE YE!?" a voice yells from behind me.

From the accent I can tell that it's a member of the congregation. A huge boar of a man by the name of Kyle O'Malley. From my peripheral vision I can see him carrying a Armalite AR-18. He points it in my direction, unsure of my identity.

"TURN THE FUCK AROUND!" he shouts, the sounds of gunfire drawing nearer.

Caught red handed, I know what has to be done, for the sake of the mission.

I stand up, the handgun in my grasp, my back still to the man and ask, "Tell me Kyle, have ye said yer prayers today?"

The realization hits him like a wreaking ball to the chest.

"Father Flannagen?"

"Amen", I say.

BAM, BAM, BAM

Two rounds to the chest and one to the head and Kyle is just another corpse to add to the pile. Like the final tree in a forest ravaged by fire, his body hits the ground with a satisfying thump. Problem solved, or so I think as the sound of rustling to my left draws my attention.

"F…f….Father?"

"_Shit"_

I turn to see Sean, my little alter boy, looking at me from the opened wall of the pub, staring at me in shock and fear over what he's just witnessed. His little chest heaves up and down, frightened and sick with what he's just seen his man of God do. He can't understand it, doesn't want to. He shakes his head in disbelief even as I start toward him. I'm no longer the man that he knows. _I am Mr. Death_.

For the sake of the mission, he has to go. But fate is a fickle bitch. Before I can even blink, Sean takes off through the alleys.

"Fuck!" I curse as I tuck the hand gun in my waist band.

I forget how fast children are. I must be getting old.

I set to chasing Sean through the alleys of Belfast. I focus on tracking the sounds of his tiny footsteps over the gunfire nearby. Things pass me by as if I'm traveling by bullet train. Houses, shrubbery, brick, shops, and fences race past. My adrenaline is through the roof and my stomach is flipping end over end. I don't dare fire in his direction. That would just make my situation worse. If he gets to the authorities, then it's game over for me. There's nothing like the feeling of having an entire population center coming done on you in order to get your ass in gear. All it takes is for the kid to open his mouth and then I have an entire country on my back. And with the country being as angry as it can be and an island, there aren't very many places to hide.

The gunfire draws closer. By now, some of the towns folk have shook off the initial explosion and have come to investigate while others remain in their homes. Those that venture out, I see, are either oblivious to the carnage and imminent danger before them or they are just too used to it at this point. Still, this makes finding the boy that much more trying.

I dart out onto an open street and glance about myself, searching for Sean.

"_Don't blow your cover, don't blow your cover, don't blow your cover!"_

And then I see him. The young boy starts to cross the street. And out of the corner of my eye I see a man, an IRA member with a blue bandanna wrapped around his lower face rush out of an alley a few doors down. He screams something that I can't hear over the gunfire and lets loose a burst from his weapon.

Seconds later he's cut down by opposing gunfire. His body doesn't twitch. One second he's standing and the next he's lying in a crumpled heap. But that doesn't stop his weapon from accidentally discharging.

_In my direction_.

In his death throws, the man squeezes the trigger and empties the weapon. I'm just about ready to scream 'Get down lad' as a series of rounds fly down the street. Sean doesn't understand and turns his attention absent mindedly to the source of the disturbance.

In a split second I see the boy's astonished face snap back. A sickening expression of surprise is plastered on his face as a stray round rips through his gut. Even from the distance I stand I can see a bright red splash of red spill out from his stomach along with a few choice organs. He doubles over before another round slams through his little eye socket. There's a sickening wet sound as brain matter slaps against a brick wall right before the body hits the ground with a thump.

"_That'll work" _I say as I breathe a sigh of relief.

Then I remember where I am. I have to keep up appearances. I rush over to the little corpse in the road.

I think "_Let's see you open your mouth now you little shit" ,_,as I stare down at the gaping, bloody eye socket.

I put on a show for the closest person I know is by. Poor Father Flannagen. Who is it that he has to see such an atrocity in our city? How is it that a man of God must be subject to something so evil?

Within seconds, a townsperson comes up behind me and hurriedly ushers me away.

"Come on Father. You don't need to see this. Ain't nothing more can be done for 'im" he says

I hang my head and walk, hiding the sense of satisfaction.

"_I know"_

In the aftermath of the day I learn that someone in Britain had gotten an itchy trigger finger and sent the troops in on some bogus account. Because they had shot their load early, it was enough to get the IRA fired up and the bombings and gunfight had erupted since then ending sometime after three in the afternoon. Twenty two bombs had been planted and gone off. Possibly many more had been diffused. But the Brits were able to get the situation under control. All in all nine people died and more than a hundred people were injured. Some of them could have died from the injuries at the hospital, but I would never know.

All this within an hour. What a bloody end to a Sunday afternoon. And I missed nearly all of it.

I go to bed in a sorry mood. So close. I was so close to the battle that I could have tasted it. And I never even truly got to experience it. I'm angry and filled with rage. I'm angry that I have to be put through this. A soldier should not be anything but a soldier. I'm a soldier. Soldier's fight wars. End of story. It's the last thing I think about before fatigue finally takes me for the night.

Then the following morning comes and everything comes to a grinding halt as I receive a poorly timed e-mail.

"The mission has been terminated. Flannagen's family hasn't heard from him in months. They're starting to get anxious for information. They booked a flight for Belfast and will arrive in five hours"

The e-mail says it all. Time for the mission just ran out. I read further.

"At 0700, there will be a private plane waiting for you. I suggest that you find a way to get there without raising suspicion"

Fuckin hell. Despite everything I do, there's always something else to come along a flush everything right down the shitter. Like waiting for the punch-line of a bad joke But it isn't like the first time a mission has gone strait to hell. My mind drifts back to the Birkin mission before I snap myself out of it.

I gather my things as quickly as I can. The morning light is coming through the clouds and it bounce off the car that's sitting in the driveway of my cottage. And an idea comes into my head. An idea that will get me out of Ireland and leave no traces of myself behind.

The papers would tell of it the following day. No one could have seen it coming, even if what was coming, in this town, was as normal as breathing. The bystanders would say that they had seen Father Matthew Flannagen drive to and park his vehicle near a sandwich shop in the middle of town. Even though not many were really paying attention, they were just as shocked and surprised when that very car, for lack of a better phrase, blew the fuck up. The fire department and authorities were called to put out the fires. No one was seriously harmed. There were thousands of dollars in collateral damage. But nothing out of the ordinary.

Except of course, the absence of a corpse.

This wasn't the first time I've had to fake my own death in order to finish off a mission. After I had left my house I set strait to work, modifying the car in order to remove a large section of the bottom of the chassis. Then it was a simple matter of using a large quantity of the various household cleansers and chemicals that I'd amassed over the past several months to create makeshift explosives. One thing led to another and before I knew it I was making my way through Belfast's swear system toward the airfield where my plane would take me back to the H.Q.

When I arrived, Major Ward was waiting for me. I handed over the remaining data and intelligence that I had amassed and in return, was given my compensation for the mission. And then I left. But as I went, something the Major said in the debriefing stuck with me, chewing on my mind and refusing to let go.

"Hard to believe that a man with no belief in God could parade as a pastor with such ease", he had said to me.

"_No belief in God?"_

You think a man could spend nearly his entire life in combat, seeing the atrocities of war, even partaking in the disregard for another person's life and not believe? You think that he could see every hardship, every abomination and evil thing that could ever be conceived and still not believe? You think that he could pull the trigger or press a button without a moment's hesitation and watch numerous people die and not believe. You think he could even play at being a man of God and not believe?

I stopped and thought for a moment. I wasn't a religious man nor had I ever really taken much stock in the practices and beliefs that came with them. I mean, how could I? A man like me? A soldier. A war machine.

Me. **Mr. Death**.

Where I went, people died. And yet somehow, as insane and impossible as it could have seemed, there _was_ a spiritual bone in my hardened body.

No. Major Ward had it all wrong. As hardened as I am, I absolutely believe in God.

_And I absolutely hate the fucker_.

**Authors note: Sorry for not updating this sooner. Or writing any fanfiction for that matter. I've just recently finished a busy semester and finally got back into writing. Hopefully this chapter turns out alright and ****gets some reviews****. If you like it, I'll keep writing it. I forsee at least another 2-3 chapters. And more insight into HUNK's earlier time with Umbrella.**

**Any questions regarding the material in this chapter can be asked in either a review or a personal message. Just a reminder that parts of this chapter are based on ****actual events****.**

**Merry Christmas, you moochers.**


	4. First Warning

**I have a ****rendezvous with death. At some disputed barricade. It may be he should take my hand, and lead me into his dark land, and close my eyes, and quench my breath. I have a rendezvous with death. And I to my pledged word am true. I shall not fail that rendezvous.**

_I __Have a Rendezvous with Death. _Alan Seeger.

Location: Classified/Nevada, Year: early 2004

Sometimes in life, one does not go to war. The war comes to them. Whether it is due to the desires of a neighboring country, rising hostilities, controversies, racism, or even simple misunderstandings, war will always find a way of breaking through the everyday life that a country will find itself in. The peace that we all experience never lasts forever. Sooner or later there will come a time when it will be extinguished, much like the fire of life. Either on a battlefield or in one's own backyard, the war will find you. What happens after that is really left up to the ones who can survive. For, to those who manage to survive, they then have to think of how to go on living, knowing that their days are forever changed. There is no innocence, no naïveté, no good times. There are no rainbows or sunshine. No happy endings. There is only preparation for what will most inevitably come next.

I don't know how the men found me. I'm careful meticulous. Always one step ahead of those around me. Like a giant game of chess, always planning out the next several set of moves and thinking of your opponent's. I don't use credit cards, cell phones, passports or anything that can be used to track me.

The men standing in my home do not appear to be the type which have the resources to locate a man of my line of work. I sit, staring through the man seated across from my desk with piercing, hard eyes of stone. He's Italian, with a balding hairline which recedes into its gelled, slicked back recesses. A dark, navy blue suit wraps itself around his overweight form while pudgy, pig like eyes creep out from a forced, shit-eating grin. The man, obvious mafia type, is flanked by two equally dressed, younger men in black suits. A stale scent of cheap cologne and old cigar smoke trails through the air, radiating off the men and making it hard for me to concentrate on anything other than what an utter waste of life sits before me.

What I can tell is that the men have money. But money doesn't buy shit in this world anymore. Not like it used to. And it certainly can't buy people. Well, most people anyway. Most are so easily swayed by a few Benjamin's these days that they'll get down on their knees and give a stray dog a blow-job just so that they can feed their crack addicted lives. I'm not concerned with money other than using it to keep living. Others choose to waste it on useless necessities. What a fucking joke.

I, however, am not convinced so easily. What concerns me is that these men, even in all their wealth, don't appear to know or comprehend the first thing about digging up a man of my services. Which, intern makes me very curious as to how they could have located me. The building that I came into acquiring is nothing more than a run down crack house that was set to be condemned. A real fixer-upper. It was also out of the way, sitting on the edge of town. No one would notice if one person decided to take up residence in one of the many floors. Weed out all the filth and grime, thus making it their own. No one would notice. And everyone would leave me alone. After many modifications and cleaning up, it became very similar to the loft dwelling I once owned. The top floor of the building was a stark comparison to the rest of the building itself. Compared to the rest of the place, my floor was a palace.

These men have a lot of explaining to do regarding the circumstances of how they located me. Military personal are one thing. The military and governments have vast amounts of equipment at their disposal. The mafia, men who run drugs, turf and prostitution, are not as well off. It makes me nervous, but if these men went to so much trouble to find me, the least I can do is hear their proposal.

The fat man takes a Cuban out of the inside breast pocket of his suit coat and sticks it in his mouth. One of his underlings moves enough to produce a lighter and light the end of the cigar. The man takes a puff and blows the smoke towards my desk.

Now if there is one thing that I can't stand about people, it's arrogance. Not that I can stand people to begin with. But this man reeked of it.

"You're a hard man to find" he says with a smile, the cigar jammed into his mouth.

He takes out another and offers it to me. I don't flinch. I don't move. I just stare at him, wondering how much longer he'll waste my time.

"There's a reason for that" I repeat, not taking my eyes off him as he recedes with his offer.

"Yeah well, I'm glad I did find ya. I got a problem that I think would be perfect for a man like yourself"

"Really?" I say with a slight, condescending tone.

"Yeah, really" He answers. "You know who I am?"

"Should I?" I ask.

"My friend, I'm Giuseppe Corleone. I damn near own this fuckin town" he says with a rough laugh.

"I see. How did you find me?" I ask my curiosity peaked and my tensions raised.

He pauses for a moment and makes a passing glance at the two men who stand at his side. Through their sunglasses, I can see the muscles around their eyes move to look back at their boss. He then looks back at me to answer.

"Ah, you know how it is. Some one talks to some one who passes it on to some one else. They told me where I could find ya"

"_They_ talk too much" I say.

Something seems off. There's no way a man like him would be able to find me in a place like this. I don't care how much cash the man has. It doesn't equal to shit if you don't know how to utilize it effectively.

"They certainly do" he answers, not understanding the warning of my last sentence.

I tire of the conversation quickly, "Why don't you explain to me your reason for being here?"

"Right, right" he says before snapping his fingers. One of his men steps up with an envelope, handing it to his boss who intern, hands it to me.

I take it and place it on the table, not even bothering to look at it.

"Well? Aren't you even gonna look at it? Your pay's already in there. Half now, and the other half when the job is done" Corleone asks.

"Perhaps you're being a bit presumptuous. How do you know that I'll even consent to the job? You could just tell me what this is all about" I say, reaching for the knife on the table. I begin to clean my fingernails with it as Corleone starts to explain himself.

"Alright, fine. You got me. Ye see, I got this problem. There's this fuckin prick who thinks that he can move in on my fuckin turf and run his business. He's takin over my drug rings and my casinos and even my girls. You know how much fuckin dough pussy brings in these days?" he half exclaims.

"I could guess" I answer, hardly interested. "What's the point?"

"The point," he says, jabbing his finger at the folder on the table, "Is that shit like this is bad for fuckin business. "I wantchu to take this cocksucker out"

I raise an eyebrow and look at the two men at Corleone's side. If the man practically owns the whole town, why the hell can't he do this himself? Why did he come to me?

"Why me?" I ask.

He scoffs and takes the cigar out of his mouth, holding it between two fingers.

"You don't fucking get it. This guy, he may be a bit small time, but he's got a lot of resources" He raises a finger to highlight the point. "The one thing that's even worse for business is startin a war in your own goddamn town. I want this taken care of quick and quiet. I want you to put a bullet in the guys fuckin skull. I want you………."

His voice trails off as I tune him out. I put the knife down and reach into my desk for a pen and a piece of paper. He doesn't even notice me writing until I've slid the envelope and scrap of paper back to him.

"What's this?" he asks, grabbing the paper.

"A name and a number of a man who specializes in these sort of things" I answer, getting up from the desk and walking over to the mini fridge. I open the door and reach for a bottle of water.

"What the fuck is this?" Corleone says, with a hint of anger in his voice. "I came to you for this job"

"Then you came to the wrong person" I say, taking a sip of water. "And you've wasted both our time"

"Listen to me you punk, and offer like this just doesn't fall from fuckin heaven"

"No, you listen to me", I say sternly, almost like I'm talking to a child. "What you're asking for is a hit-man, something that I'm not. I'm a mercenary. I've seen shit and done things that they don't show you in movies or in video games. I've seen war, tasted it, breathed it, live it. I know what people will do, how they think, and what their insides look like. I'm a soldier. You want me to invade another country or retrieve something for you? That I can do. You want some one to do a drive by, I'm sure that there are enough gangbangers for that"

"But I can pay you whatever you want. Get you whatever you want. Money, drugs, women" Corleone says, putting out his cigar on my desk, grinding it into the wood.

"It isn't about the money" I tell him with a stoic face. "It's about principles"

"So, you won't take the job?" he asks.

I give him a cold hard stare and then lean against the far wall of the room, "We're through here. I think you can find your way out"

"You're makin a huge fuckin mistake. No one says 'no' to me in my own town you piece of shit"

"First time for everything" I tell him, arms crossed. "Now get out"

Corleone and his men get up and move to the door. Before he leaves, he turns to me and says, "You're makin a big fuckin mistake. I want you to remember this moment. The way it coulda gone and didn't"

And with that he shuts my door. The smell lingers behind.

**III**

I'm not one to dwell on things. You think about the past too much and things will start coming back at you that you didn't even know existed. You'll see events differently. Your thoughts will influence your next move. It's better to let the past die and move on. You can't allow what once was to make you second guess yourself. You hesitate, people die. But for some reason, I just can't let the meeting with Corleone go. It chews at me, refusing to let go.

A soldier is usually at his best when he relies on what he knows. On instinct and raw power. And right now, I just couldn't shake the feeling that something very, very wrong was about to happen. I tried to push it out of my mind, but it kept coming back to me again and again. There was no real reason to be afraid. Even if the man was a Mafioso, there was no way that he'd be able to scare me. Unless I were to make a mistake.

And I never make mistakes.

For whatever reason, I can't concentrate. I opt to watch the news for a change, to see what's going on with the rest of the world. I grab the remote and sit down as the widescreen glows to life. First it's the local news, then on to CNN or MSNBC. News channels that for all intents and purposes are largely controlled by the corporations. This is in order to keep people in check and get them to give themselves over to the burden of consumerism.

News channels. Spreading half truths and whole lies to the masses. But at its core, it's still intel. But sometimes, intel can be as bad as whole lies.

The second I turn on the television I get a spot of bad intel.

"We have breaking news" the news anchor said. "Police are on the hunt for a man that has killed three police officers and wounded a fourth within a neighboring city" she reports. "The information that we have at this time is limited, but we do have a police sketch of the alleged suspect"

My heart skips half a beat as I stare at the image on the television. The person responsible has a strong jaw and cold, emotionless eyes. The picture shows a rough patch of stubble along the man's face. Even though the picture is in black and white, I can see the markings of a short hair cut.

I look at myself on the T.V.

"Police say that the suspect is well armed and extremely dangerous. It is advised that if you see the suspect, do not approach him. We are getting reports that he is an ex-military agent with varying degrees of skill" the news anchor continues reporting. "Again, if you see the suspect, _do not_ approach him. We'll keep you posted with more updates as they come to us. Back to you Richard"

I shut off the television and attempt to compose myself. I didn't kill any police officers. At least not recently. And even if I did, there was no way that anyone could have seen me or know what I look like. No one even knows where I live. No one knows me.

"_I damn near own this whole fuckin town._ _No one turns me down in my own town you piece of shit"_

Corleone's voice rings in my head as I put two and two together. A man in his position must have connections. And I have a sick feeling that things are about to go from shit to worse very, very, quick……

_Crassssssssssssssssssssh._

Something small sails through my window, the breaking glass alerting me to its presence. Not even thinking, I dive behind a couch and pull the book case down over top of me, shutting my eyes and cover my ears as literature rains down. Even through me shut senses I know a flash bang go off when I hear it. There's a muffled 'bang' as the room fills with light. I shake it off easily just in time to see another two canisters sail through my windows, this time trailing smoke.

Tear gas grenades. Effective, if whoever's outside wanted to slow me down.

I cover my mouth with my arm and move to the area behind the fallen bookcase. Inside the hidden area is my gear. Moving as fast as I can before the gas fills my place, I done my body suit, gas mask, boots and helmet before grabbing my TMP and my side arm 'Matilda' along with a couple clips of 'Jackal' ammo and four frag grenades.

From below me I hear the sounds of footsteps as they make their way up the old wooden stairs of the building. From what I can hear, there are at least twelve men, if not two dozen. Thinking quickly, I reach back into the cache and grab two claymore mines before rushing to the front door. I set them up and wait for the men, looking for them through the peep hole in the door. Soon I see them. All cops, dressed head to toe in SWAT gear.

I wait as they each take positions along the hallway, weapons trained at the door. Then a lone man comes forward, lowering the assault rifle he holds and tries to stare at me through the peephole.

I move my side arm to the door, where I think the man's head is on the other side, and wait. After a few moments I hear, "I THINK IT'S THIS ONE SIR!"

BANG!

Through the peephole I hear the man grunt as his body falls out of sight, a small hole appearing in the side of his head, just below his SWAT helmet. Moments later the building erupts as gunfire turns the door into Swiss cheese. But I'm nowhere near the door. I duck away just in time until the assault ends. A few more moments and I can hear the men on the other side speak and make their way to the door. I hear them use a battering ram to knock the door down. Wood and metal splinter.

"_Five, Four, Three, Two, One" _I think, waiting for the moment to happen.

KRCHHBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!

The claymores rip a path of destruction through the building and out into the hallway. I hear screaming as the men are thrown violently back the way they had come. I get up and move out through the door. Through the mask I can see men staggering in the hallway, dust and debris settling as a few small fires smolder about the area. At least nine or ten men lay on the ground, some in pieces as the mines decimate their ranks. I move as fast as I can, cleaning up what remains of the SWAT.

I grab the first man I see, kicking him in the back of his legs and bringing him to his knees. I break his neck hard and fast. His head twists around a full 180 degrees and a hard, wet snap resonates through his body. He goes slack and I toss him to the side before moving to the next man, and then a third. By the fourth man, the rest of the SWAT have shook off the attack as I've made my way to the stair well. The other men are holed up there, save for a man near the top. He turns his head as he sees the red goggles appear out of the smoke and debris. Just as he's about to raise his weapon I aim the TMP low and fire off a round into the man's tibia. There's a dull 'spak' sound as the bullet drives into the bone. He cries out and falls to his knees, whilst grabbing at the bullet hole in his shattered leg. I run strait at him, kicking him in the chest and sending him into the collection of men in the stairwell. While they're disoriented, I reach for a grenade and pull the pin.

"_Fire in the hole" _I think as I toss it into the stairs.

BWRRROOOOOOOOOOOM!

Without a moment's hesitation, I run and jump into the stairwell, knowing the structural integrity is now compromised. The wood gives way underneath me, breaking and sending me falling through several more flights of wooden stairs. Four stories is a long way down. But if you have enough to break your fall, the drop is seemingly not as severe. Bodies and parts of bodies fall with me as I hit the ground floor. Corpses, wood, dry wall and dust fall with me in a shower of debris. I roll out of the way and to my feet to see the lobby of the building contains another six men who are both astounded and shaken by what has happen. Too shaken to react to what has just happened.

Too shaken to prepare for what comes next.

I level the TMP, my finger tightens on the trigger and I cut a path through the men, sweeping the weapon from left to right. It makes a fast paced, 'clat, clat, clat, clat, clat, clat', sound of bullets being expelled. All six men dance a twitch filled dance of death as the rounds rocket through them. They fall in heaps in mere seconds, their uniforms soaking up the blood from their wounds like a sponge.

No matter, they'll all most likely have closed casket funerals.

I reload and make my way outside to the many squad cars waiting for me. There are three SWAT remaining with their guns leveled at the door. I'm in deep now. The rules for engaging the enemy are clear. And these men know it. There's no, 'down on your knees with your hands behind your head 'bullshit' this time. No Miranda rights. These guys want me dead. But these guys are no soldiers.

The laser sight from the TMP appears and I take aim as the automatic rounds rip past me, tearing into the old wood and brick of the building. One round glances off my left shoulder. I tell my brain to ignore the pain as I fire at the first SWAT and then in another two seconds, adrenaline running through me, the other two drop as well. Perfect head shots right through their masks. The bodies fall out of sight, I lower my weapon and run strait for the cab of the SWAT fan sitting amongst the squad cars.

I turn the engine on and shift the vehicle into reverse, feeling a dull thump as the van rolls over something, most likely a corpse of a man I just killed.

As I drive away from the building, I grab for the small, handheld detonator in my pocket. Using my thumb, I pop the top off of it and depress the red button. Behind me, I hear and feel the gigantic explosion as the building which I have called home for the past several months goes up. I have covered my tracks. Now it's time for the real mission to begin.

**III**

I never make mistakes. But what I don't do, is plan for the unpredictable. The x-factor. That one little thing that, even if you could have thought about it, you could never have anticipated it. Like a fly in the ointment, or a spanner in the works. The small thing that nags at you and screams from afar to get out of the way. That some serious shit is about to hit the proverbial fan. In war, there are rules. Rules of engagement. Ways of doing things that most are used to. Ways to fight a war that many are familiar with. This was something different.

Some one had just changed all the rules.

I drive the stolen van through the down-town area of the Nevada city. A SWAT van being driven over the speed limit is a good way to get yourself noticed. Wearing tactical gear that makes you look like you just walked out of World War III is another good way. And the final nail in the coffin is shutting off radio transmissions that the precinct is sending the very vehicle I'm driving. I know it won't be long before someone notices. And the explosion in the distance that I caused won't help matters either. I need to get out of the city. But before I do that, I need to settle a score with a certain mafia member. I…..

SHPIIING!

Something hits the driver's side mirror of the van, taking it right off. I swerve in response, not understanding what's just happened. My whole body jerks as the van clips the backend of a passing vehicle at an intersection. The car spins as metal and glass fly from its disabled frame. Then I see it more clearly now. I'm being shot at. More rounds rip at the metal of the van, creating dents into the armored plating as I swerve to avoid them. I'm not making much progress. All I am is one giant fucking bullet magnet.

Suddenly, a round rips through the hood of the van and destroys the engine block. The van starts to smoke and sputter. I lose control, the van's back end fish tailing back and forth. Eventually, gravity takes over and the top heavy vehicle falls over to its side, taking me with it. Metal grinds and glass breaks as the car slides across the road. The centrifugal force keeps me plastered against the cab as the vehicle is violently brought to a halt by a building.

I shake off the wreak and look around. My hearing is shot, only a constant ringing in my ears sounds as I use my elbow to break open the window of the van and crawl out. Luckily my weapons are still with me and I take a moment to crouch by the overturned van, getting my composure. Shaking off the glass as well as the effects of the crash, I stand up, still reeling. The whole street is backed up from the crash, cars honk and skid out of harms way. Some crash. I look up when I see some one moving towards me. A civilian woman.

"Oh my God!" she exclaims. "Officer, are you alright?"

Officer? It becomes apparent that the woman thinks I'm a SWAT officer. She's a young brunette woman, in her early twenties and about a foot shorter than me with firm breasts that peak out of a v-neck t-shirt. Through the goggles I can see a look of concern on her face as she wonders about my well being. I'm about to shrug her off when I see a bright light in the distance.

BANG!

My vision clouds a darker shade of red as something covers my visor. It takes me three seconds to wipe my goggles with my arm. The woman is nowhere to be seen. I look down to find her corpse at my feet, a look of utter surprise on her face. Eyes open and gapping, like a dead fish. A large exit wound if in her forehead and a worse mess of blood and brain matter pouring out of the hole.

Too bad for her. Wrong place, wrong time. Collateral damage. Something that's all too common in war. The casualties are high in this type of situation. And someone decided to bring the war to me.

That's when I notice the sharp, burning pain in my shoulder. I look down to see the oozing hole in my chest, just between my right lung and shoulder. The adrenaline clouding my senses to its presence, but alerting me to something else.

A sniper.

I don't have time to sit around and think. I can only go on raw instinct. Shots ring out, missing me by inches as I run for the alleys in between the buildings, hopping over the hoods of cars stopped in traffic. People run and scream behind me, some of them catching the rounds and going down in my place as I run through a maze of alleys. I lose more blood as my heart works harder to pump it. At this rate, I'll kill myself faster than the man shooting at me.

The shots still ring out, the person high above playing target practice with me. As I run I begin to notice the rounds are no longer coming close to hitting me. Cement and brick chips fly up as the rounds fly into them. I try to figure this out as my muscles ache and my lungs burn, a haze starting to take over due to the increasing blood loss. Then it hits me.

I'm not being shot at. I'm being forced where the shooter wants me to go. And that only spells one thing:

A trap. Which is what this whole day is starting to look like. I can't keep this up. Which is why I have to mix it up.

I dive for a spot behind a dumpster to make my next move. I'm a sitting duck down on the streets. And the way this day is heading, things are only going to get worse. But that is war, and in war you either live or die. And sometimes, you even adapt, make plans and go back in full force.

Then it hits me. The manhole six feet ahead calls out to me and I run for it. With what strength I have left I pry the cover open and drop down inside the sewer. A ten foot drop separates me from the water below and I land in a splash. Murkiness comes up to my knees as I trudge over to the cement walkway and pull myself up to the side. Out of the water, I sit and catch my breath. The crash coupled by the ever increasing severity of the bullet wound makes things tough for me. For all I know, it might have hit an artery. A minor set back but, things start to haze up for me. I've got to rest, think out my next move.

But I start to slump over as the fatigue hits me. A wave darkness takes me away before I even get a chance to act.

**III**

**Location: Mogadishu, Somalia. Year: 1993**

"TAKE UP DEFENSIVE POSITIONS OVER TO THE FAR WALL!"

I've gone back in time, to the days when I just started my military career. Back when I was no older than a twenty two year old soldier on my first mission.

Mogadishu, Somalia was a hot and arid place, filled with bombed out and bullet ridden buildings made of tan and white stone. As with most third world countries, it looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie. As was the case, it was also an extremely violent area of the world. Perfect for a young kid like me.

After going through several foster families, one had finally had enough and sent me off to military school. Military school led to the real military where I excelled more than anywhere else in my life. And before I knew it, I was being trained as a Ranger. The superiors said they had never seen someone like me before. So young yet so capable of everything he was ordered to do. Like I was more of a machine than a man. A machine that was focused on one thing and one thing only:

Getting the mission done.

I had the skills, I had the ability. I had more than anyone that had ever gone through boot camp or the other programs. I could rise fast and I had that spark that made me the perfect tool to get things taken care of. Never before had anyone completed as much as me as perfectly in such a short amount of time. Which was why they sent me to Somolia for my first mission.

For someone who had never tasted war before, I welcomed it, didn't fear it and took to it like a duck to water. Fear kept you from getting the job done. And I had no reason for it. The Somoli were poorly trained militia fighters with no real concept of how to properly utilize a weapon. It would be like shooting fish in a really, small barrel.

It was two days after the events that would become to be known as the Battle of Mogadishu. Two Black Hawk helicopters had gone down and the ensuing battle lasted nearly a day and a half. The men were tired, bloody and beaten. And still they followed the code of 'No man left behind'. I thought it ridiculous. The dead stay on the battle field, for that is their grave. It's just useless symbolism to try and bring the bodies back. Oh, how I loathed the weakness of that one order. We had lost many men the day before in the effort to arrest the war lord who controlled the city and thus sending it into starving turmoil, General Mohamed Farrah Aidid . But in return, there were many enemy casualties. The numbers evened themselves out quite nicely. I however was forced to sit back at base until I was needed. And when the need came, I knew I'd be ready. My body, wits and skills were trained to perfection.

And now, I ran through the dusty streets with a small platoon of me, searching for corpses of men that had died only hours ago. There was even the hope that the pilot Mike Durant would be found alive. That was what the CO's had in mind at least.

The fight had died down since the two birds had crashed days before. But it was still fierce. The battle in Mogadishu was like poking a hole into a hornets nest. That's what those back at the base likened it to. All over the net you could see crowds of people, some armed, some not, running through the streets to where they thought the fight was. Aside from a few chances of luck, most of the fighters were too fucked up on khat, a type of weed that they chewed which acted as an amphetamine nervous system stimulant, to be capable fighters. That coupled with an almost non-existent form of training made the people more than easy to deal with. All they did, in place of a well chosen position was run-and-gun. Which made them easy targets. And yet still, there were casualties on our side.

Decked out in tan, military equipment and body arm, we ran through the streets while hugging the walls of the buildings. Four men on one side of the street and four on the other. We were making our way to an extraction point where a few of the Little Bird helicopters would swoop in to grab us.

One of the other platoons had found the remains of one of the soldiers so they thought it best to return to base until more intel could be gathered on the remains of the other men. I felt a little cheated. With all the fighting, I still hadn't killed anyone yet. I'd fired my rifle more than enough times, but no confirmed kills. The Somoli fighters were notorious for using their surroundings to their advantage, ducking away when the opportunity presented itself.

Bullets still rained down at us at various intervals, only for us to deliver a barrage of our own back at the enemy. The firing stopped and we kept moving South, down the street. My adrenaline was through the roof, but I stayed focused and channeled the excitement and furry into moving without getting shot. In firing while making my mark.

We came to an intersection and Corporal Edwards had us stop with a raised fist. He then peeked around the corner to the right. Seconds later, the deep 'wumph' of an RPG sounded.

"RPG!" someone screamed as a trail of smoke cut across the road to the other men.

The rocket slammed into the wall just behind the forth man, creating a huge explosion while raining cement and shrapnel down on him. He screamed as his teammates went to help him. A flurry of gunfire erupted as we shot back at unseen attackers. From the corner of my eye I could see the men across the street help the soldier up, his leg bloody and loose. We had just lost some fire power, and the injuries would slow us down. And we were only a few blocks from the LZ.

I heard Edwards yell something to me.

"COVERING FIRE!"

I saw the man behind him take up position and fire down the west side of the intersection, AK fire, coming back at him and kicking up dirt at his feet. One of the other soldiers from across the street did the same thing, allowing us to cross. Once over, we did the same, covering them and allowing them safe access. It was harder to train on a moving target than I thought, especially when they were there one moment and gone the next. Only a few more blocks to the LZ. We had to get out while we had a window, before the rest of the city came down on us.

We made it to the old hotel where the Little Birds would ferry us out through the courtyard. We also had three minutes till they got here. Three minutes is a long time in war. It can mean the difference between getting all of your men out alive, or only getting some of them out.

Taking up defensive positions around the large building, we watched as every once and awhile, a Somoli with a gun would run across the road, taking pot shots at us. The hotel became peppered with rounds from almost all sides, except mine. With nothing to look at, I turn and watched as Sgt Michaels used his SAW to fire a trail of bullets at a group of enemies down the street. I watched in new wonderment as the rounds tore through their bodies like they were made of paper. I saw their bodies flail about as the weapon removed limbs and punched holes clean through them. Then they fell and didn't get back up. It was so different and real, that I couldn't look away. Not out of fear or revulsion.

This was war. Real war. And it was spectacular.

"BOGY ON YOUR…………." I heard Edwards yell out before a round found its mark in his torso, cutting him down.

"MAN DOWN!" I heard on of the other men yell.

I didn't know if he was dead or alive, but I turned my weapon on the man with the AK that had snuck past our defenses. He ran out of bullets just as I squeezed the trigger on my rifle.

And nothing happened. The gun had jammed.

"Fuck!" I said, switching my view from the Somoli man and my weapon.

If I couldn't take care of this, I knew that would be it. The man fumbled with a new magazine. He would reload before I took care of the problem. I had to think fast, use another weapon, and neutralize the enemy before he had the chance to kill me.

My hand went to my knife and I pulled it out of my sheath. Knives, they never run out of bullets, and not many specialize in them anymore. Except for me.

I watched the blade leave my hand and sail through the air almost effortlessly. The man didn't even realize what'd happened until he see's the blade sticking in his chest. He looks down at it and staggers back, his AK falling loose in his grip. I see red start to spread out onto his shirt, like a leak in a damn that's about to burst forth. Then he disappears behind a wall in the blink of an eye. I can't let him get away and give our position anymore than it already is.

I have to finish the kill.

I don't have to go far to find the man bleeding to death in a nearby seating area of the lobby. He watches me as I turn the corner and train my gun on him. He looks over to his rifle and tries to lift it in vain. In a flash, I kick it out of his grip and kneel down on his chest. He cries out weekly as I removed the knife from his chest, a sickening thick sound of wet meat sounds out amidst the gunfire.

I could end it right here and now. But I want to remember this. A gun would be too quick. It won't allow me to savor taking my first human life. I look at my watch and notice that I've got forty five seconds.

Plenty of time.

I take the knife in my hand and plunge it into the man, again and again. All the while I think of the men at my side that were killed or maimed today. The blade goes in again and again, making the same 'gusht' sound over and over. First the chest, then the neck and arms and spine. Every time the body moves and twitches until it finally stops. Amazingly, he's still holding on. I became fascinated by what the human body could be put through and continue to cling to life. I look down at my kill and I don't know what to feel. Taking a human life is a big thing. Not many can desensitize themselves to it. It can turn a person into something they're not. You can lose yourself to it. Make you blood drunk. Destroy you.

I was in that place of mind for what seemed like forever. Until someone brought me out of it.

"Finally got one huh? Feels good, doesn't it?" Sgt Michaels asked, slapping me on the shoulder while running to the chopper.

I looked down at the man as I retrieved my knife. Despite all I'd done, he was still clinging to life by a thread. I removed my side arm and aimed for his head. He raised his arm weakly to try and push me away, gasping for air and choking on blood. A thick, gurgle sound resonated through his throat.

With no one else around I said "**I don't feel a thing**", and pulled the trigger.

The man stopped moving as the bullet slammed into his head, a small pool of blood began to appear underneath him. I took in a breath and let it out, allowing my nerves to cool down and reality to come back to me. I heard the whir of the helicopter's rotors and ran for it. The mission was over. I had survived. And I had finally tasted war and death. It was a taste that I would come to experience for years to come.

It was a taste that I would welcome. Every time.

It's true what they say. After the first kill, it just gets easier and easier. It's like something as simple as breathing, or eating potato chips. It's so easy, you never know if you can stop. You don't know if you can stop, because some small part of you will always want it. Always want to know what it's like to take another life. To see that last spark of humanity before it's extinguished forever. To know power, life and death. To be in control.

Not long after that fateful day in Somalia, some people from **Umbrella Inc** came knocking on my door with a job offer. It was the beginning of my life after that point. A life that has given me much to think about.

Is there good and evil in the world?

No. Good and evil are subjective terms given to those that use them. The truth is that there is no such thing as good and evil. In relation to one thing or another, it is really just different sides holding opposing views. Neither is inherently right or wrong. Merely different.

So is it evil when a truck load of soldiers get blown up? Is it good when the Americans take out a group of insurgents? Is it evil when a terrorist bombs a country? Or is it good when a country takes action to defend its country in the name of justice or God? Is rape and murdering of civilians cause for concern? Are the nightmares, and horrors and violence?

No, for that is what war is.

None of these are true, and all of them are. That is the paradox of human behavior. Everyone thinks that they are correct in their statements, beliefs and actions, regardless of who gets killed in the process. The tenacity of man is what creates strife and causes it to burn through the ages. For it is in human nature to destroy itself. Conflict after conflict after conflict. From the time of neanderthals to whenever the human race becomes extinct.

What these people call war, I call thinning out the numbers. We forget that humans are basically another species of animal. And all animals fight to survive. It's the years of civilization and peace that turns us into what we are not. Like in hunting, when a population gets too large for its own good, something comes along to trim back the amount of overflow. In the past there was natural selection. A natural, survival of the fittest ideal or Darwinism that proposed that only those strong and smart enough deserve to thrive.

Now, we have war to do that for us. And we have those who thrive in war, to do the warring.

Somewhere between soldier and hit-man, somewhere between the headlines and the propaganda, somewhere below the radar and above the law, and somewhere between politics and profiteering are people like me. Mercs who live for nothing but the war. Nothing but the mission at hand.

Nothing but survival of the fittest.


	5. Tohuvabohu

**Death is everything**

_W__ords inscribed on a statue of a knight from __Resident Evil 1_

Being unconscious is nothing special. You go to sleep and hope that you'll wake up sometime later. The only real thing about it is how it can catch you by surprise. In the blink of an eye you can lose yourself to whatever is pulling you down, stealing you away from the world. Old ghosts appear out of nowhere, tempting you with days gone by. Days that were simple and the world was right in front of you. But the world was never simple for me.

Never.

I guess levels of consciousness are different for everyone. Asleep one moment and then awake the next, no perception of time going by at all. A period of blackness that is over in the time that it takes someone to snap their fingers. Like one quick sleep without any dreams. Not that there are ever dreams for me. Not when I sleep and certainly not when I'm unconscious. But memories, memories are a completely different aspect of the mind. They can be recalled when you choose them to be. Or they can come about when you least expect it. Like a bullet slamming into you from afar. Like a grenade going off in your face.

Or maybe it's something as simple as pulling an old book off the shelf. One covered with a thick layer of dust and has worn edges. An aspect of your life that you don't look at that often, but you can't help but let it take hold of you, remind you of what there used to be in the world. How things used to be. A beginning, so to speak.

Even through the mask and helmet I was aware of everything. I could hear water running in the distance, could see rats scurrying amongst the pipes and walk ways. I could see debris and God knows what else creeping through the murky waters. All tinted red by my goggles. All blurred by the fatigue and blood loss. It couldn't have been that serious of a hit if I was still alive. But for how much longer was anyone's guess. I wanted to move and get out of here and finish the fight, but my body screamed at me to stay.

Any other time I could have shaken this off and moved on. But that's the funny thing about blood loss. It kicks you in the ass when you least expect it. And judging by my current activity level, I had lost about a pint and three fourths of another. Not enough to put me down for good, but enough to make sure that I wouldn't be doing wind sprints for awhile. It had to be more shock than anything else keeping me from going anywhere.

Laying there in the stinking, putrid underground of the sewer with blood seeping out of my shoulder, I brought myself out of one memory only to be quickly pulled into another. Darkness stole me away from the few brief moments that I was able to bring myself out of it. And I slipped again, back into the deeper parts of my past. But it wasn't just my past that I saw.

It was also Umbrella's. A history that we both shared, like brothers. A time that had helped shape me into what I am today.

You don't have to worry. I'm not gonna tell you a pack of lies to make me look good. I'm just gonna tell you what happened.

**III**

**Location: Rockfort Island. Year: 1996**

"LISTEN UP YOU MAGGOTS!" The Staff Sergeant yelled at us as we stood in formation. "YOU HAVE COME TO THE END OF YOUR TRAINING. JUST ONE MORE TRIAL SEPARATES YOU FROM A POSITION IN ONE OF THE MOST PRESTIGIOUS PARAMILITARY GROUPS THIS WORLD HAS EVER SEEN", the man barked at us.

It's a matter of professionalism that I can tell when someone is blowing smoke up my ass. And the big man who marched back and forth was just another case of it that I'd seen since coming to this place. The Sergeant was your typical drill instructor cliché. Basically take R. Lee Ermy in the prime of his life, lose the hat and inject all the steroids in the world, and that gave you the huge man in fatigues standing before us. No doubt, at one point in his life, he would have been a fantastic soldier. But something in my gut told me that at this point in his life, the man's bark was worse than his bite. Not that I wanted to test that particular theory at the time.

Rockfort was, by no means, a bad place. Well, as far as I saw it. To anyone else it could have been confused for a penal colony. Due to its location, there was an everlasting gloom over the island. It was dark and cold and gray whichseemed to permeate every inch and corner that the island had to offer. Every rock and stone seemed to be touched by graying fog and overcast. Sea air filled our lungs with every breath we took. It was like Death had taken up the island as a summer home.

In other words, I was more than comfortable.

The training facility was quite vast for being on an island. It had everything that a standard boot camp could offer and then some. Aside from the conventional training of exercises and firing ranges, the facility had other more 'unique' aspects of it. By the way the men trained us, you'd think that it would have been a place better suited to training members of the CDC or perhaps any member of any HAZMAT unit on the planet. Not only were we taught how to deal with normal problems, but we also went through bio-hazardous drills. It wasn't quite what I expected paramilitary training to be at the time.

The island was owned and operated by a man known as Alfred Ashford, who I would later learn, was the current head of the Ashford family. The family itself were one of the founders of the infamous Umbrella corporation. I never really saw much of Ashford to formulate an opinion about the man. All I could deduce from what I did see was that he was a molded man. Cut and tailored to look like the war general that he seemed to be. He wore his blond hair short and was seen wearing a red military uniform that would have been acceptable for a general.

From what the other men in the program had heard and talked about, it seemed that Ashford lived in the lavish, private quarters of the island along with his sister.

Alexia.

She was never seen and only rarely talked about. For whatever reason, Alfred was extremely protective of her and loathed anybody who inquired about her for reasons other than her wellbeing.

Call me crazy but….I don't know. Something appeared to be off about him. And I'm usually spot-on when it comes to reading people. And everything about his and Alexia's situation screamed everything from 'incest' to a general curiosity about whether she even existed.

But regardless, Ashford put up a decent, if somewhat concerning, training grounds.

Including myself, there were thirty six men there that day, with ages ranging from twenties to mid forties. We stood in formation, dressed in the fatigues that had been issued to us by the training personal, as the Sergeant shouted at us through a slight drizzle of rain. The weather was something that we had come to associate with Rockfort.

"THERE ARE THIRTY SIX OF YOU MEN HERE TODAY", he shouted at us, "THIRTY SIX OF YOU THAT HAVE BEEN TRAINED AS BEST AS WE SEE FIT. AND NOW, YOUR FINAL TEST AWAITS YOU. YOU WILL BE SENT THROUGH THE FINAL OBSTECLE COURSE WHERE YOU WILL REACH A DESTINATION. BUT THIS IS NO ORDINARY COURSE" he said to the men, standing rigid before him.

"THIS WILL TEST YOU IN WAYS YOU WOULD NEVER EXPECT. THERE WILL BE PITFALLS AND DANGERS ALONG EVERY TURN. SOME OF YOU **WILL NOT SURVIVE**!"

Back in basic, before we were shipped out to Somalia or wherever else we were intended to go, we were all issued a similar warning. But those that failed never died. They just 'washed out' of boot camp. They went home or they tried to enter back into the program. This was a completely different set of circumstances. The stakes were hirer. A cushy job wasn't the only thing that waited for us at the end of this interview. A chance to see the sun rise again was also at stake.

The man continued his steroid charged tirade "THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE NOT UP FOR THE CHALLENGE MAY LEAVE NOW!"

Somehow, I didn't think it would be as simple as that. You don't just bring a group of people to some God forsaken piece of dirt, train them in ways that scream 'cover up' and 'infiltration' and then let them go. No, someone would be doing some questioning. I had a sinking feeling that if we didn't die in the course, we'd die trying to leave.

Thankfully, everyone else saw things the exact same way I did. Not one man budged.

"EXCELLENT!" he barked, "I WANT EACH MAN TO STAY WHERE YOU ARE. THE MEN IN FRONT OF YOU AND BEHIND YOU COMPOSE YOUR SQUADS. SIX SQUADS, SIX MEN IN EACH" he stated with a swing of his arm.

"NOW, COME FORWARD AND PICK UP YOUR WEAPONS!" the Sergeant ordered.

We all made our way to the tables before us. Each was laid out with an assortment of AK-47 assault rifles, side-arm pistols, grenades, ammo and a few gadgets such as night and thermal vision to get the job done. We made our way through the tables, grabbing what we could carry without slowing us down. Say what you will about the Russians, they sure knew how to make a perfect weapon.

Of all the weapons in the world nothing was more profitable than Avtomat Kalashnikova model of 1947, more commonly known as the AK-47. An elegantly simple nine pound amalgamation of forged steel and plywood. It doesn't break, jam, or overheat. It will fire whether it's covered in mud or filled with sand. It's so easy even a child could use it.

And they do.

"Hey, watch it" another of the recruits said.

Not particularly caring, I watched out of the corner of my peripheral vision as a man made his way through the tables, pushing everyone else out of the way. He was mechanical and decisive in how he chose his gear, forsaking the un-useful or uninteresting in favor of what he could use to get the job done. He had no concern for those around him and no desire to wait or have things slow him down. His gaze was cold and un-nerving, similar to my own. His facial features told me that he had he had done this before, that he'd seen action. As if his graying hair didn't say enough. And even though he didn't look at me, I knew that he was. Multitasking without even appearing to be. We were so similar back then.

Sizing each other up.

It's strange that in some ways, a soldier can also spot another soldier. A true soldier that is. Most of the kids that go off to war these days have no idea what they're doing. Like having sex for the fist time. Even some of the veterans can't be called soldiers. No, it's the hardened men with nothing to lose and no respect for humanity that can hold that title. Men who live only for combat. Men….

We each grabbed for the same grenade at the same time. I look at him and he looks at me. A steely look shot out from both our eyes, like two hungry dogs fighting over the same scrap of meat. Judging from his facial features, eyes, everything, it was a safe bet to say that the man was Russian or at least of said descent.

I snatch the nade away quick and hard, tucking it into my belt. The man is still looking at me, picking a fight with his eyes. Call it the soldier in me, but I couldn't just back down.

"You got a problem?" I asked, shoving a magazine into one of my pouches.

"Yes. You" he said with an accent.

Russian, I knew it.

"Yeah, well take a number" I said, speaking a lot more heavily than I actually felt.

The man made a move to start something with me when one of the other soldiers pushed in between us.

"Hey!" he half yelled, "Save it for the course"

We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity before backing off.

"He's right" the Russian said. "I'll see you at the finish line"

Sarcasm mixed with condescendence and arrogance. You had to appreciate the words from the man's mouth.

"Yeah, I bet you will….", I answered, looking down at the name tag stitched to his uniform.

"…Nicholi" I said.

He glared at me before turning and walking towards the rest of his squad, giving me a look at his back and last name stitched across it.

Ginovaef.

The finish line. It would be interesting to see who got there first.

**III**

Five minutes in and we hadn't seen shit. The course was everything that we thought it was going to be and more. It was like Ashford had taken a whole compound and built a small town for the soul purpose of testing people. There were various concrete structures, similar to bunkers, everywhere. Small shacks littered the area, mimicking the barracks we'd been using. And then there were the facilities that appeared to have once been used for some sort of research or development. Like someone had been testing something high tech or chemistry based, abandoned it and then allowed it to sit and rot for several years following. In actuality, the course was more of one giant playground. There was nothing truly linear about it.

A rain had set in as we made our way through the course. The damp, biting sea air mixed with the tremendous downpour and seeped into the dirt and gravel that we walked upon. Our feet started to sink into the soupy mess as we trudged forward. It figured that they would try to schedule this when the weather was not at its best. They wanted to test their future employees in the worst conditions imaginable. Not that I had never had to train in poor conditions before.

I remember that I was field commander for my squad. We had made it through an abandoned warehouse and out into a narrow walkway, back out into the rain. If this was supposed to be the greatest test for us soldiers, I was going to be thoroughly disappointed. At least, I would have been, until the man on point held up a closed fist.

We all stopped in our tracks. The rest of the squad was on edge as they trained their weapons in various directions, taking into account all the areas that an attack could come from in such a small area. The corridor was just one long outside walkway leading to a fence on the other side. We just had to get from point A to point B.

"What is it?" I had called out, lowering my weapon.

"Trip wire", the man called back, taking out a pair of wire cutters from his belt.

Trip wire. Just a booby trap that would no doubt let off a mine of some other such trap. Childs play for men like us. The disappointment was making itself known to me. But in war, things can change in the blink of an eye. One minute you can be staring at your squad member as he's staring around a corner and the next, you're looking at what's left of his head after a bullet rips through it. The trip wire was nothing to concern myself with. You just had to cut it in a way that didn't set it off. Then I started looking around the corridor.

Through the rain I noticed, that along the walls of cement and concrete were little steel doors, about two to three feet in height that ran along the ground. They looked like they'd been built into the cement in a way that something was able to open them. And why of all places, would they put a trip wire in such an obvious location? A fucking three year old could have spotted it. That's about when it hit me that something was very, very off.

I was just about to yell 'Don't cut the wire' when the shooting in the distance began. The clat, clat, clat, clat, sound of automatic fire about fifty or sixty yards away rang out through the complex. The only thing that brought my attention back to my squad was the sounds of the same steel doors I noticed moving back into the wall and sliding away, automatically.

The son of a bitch had cut the fucking wire.

It wasn't a booby trap. They knew we'd cut the thing.

Nothing happened for a few moments. We all stood there wondering what was going on as the gun fire in the distance started to get more intense. Then it started to slow down, becoming more sporadic and punctuated. A few cracks here and there, the quick automatic pops fading. Then that died out and was replaced with the sound of side arm pistols being used. Then that stopped.

And then the _screaming _started.

"What do we do sir?" the wire-cutter asked.

I looked over and could see he was shaking a bit. The fear of the unknown will get any man.

"Keep moving forward" I ordered, thinking nothing of what was most likely housed behind the steel and concrete.

We ran for the fencing when it happened. One second, the last man in the squad was there and the next he was screaming. But his screams were mixed with something else. The growls and barks were recognizable. Ashford was sicking Dobermans on us. The squad turned around to see a mass of writhing shapes on the ground. The man thrashed in desperation, trying to push the animals away as they tore at him. There had to be at least eight of the canines. I watched as he tried to roll around in the dirt in vain desperation, his screams mixing with the howls and yips of the filthy creatures. The dogs were tearing into the man at an alarming rate, biting and scratching. It was enough that I could make out red pouring out onto the ground. The man was being mauled to death by the dogs. Only they weren't quite dogs.

The open wounds and exposed bones were the first indicator that something was wrong. There was rippling flesh and red muscle all over the creatures. Even from the distance I stood, I could smell the waves of thick stench emanating from the creatures. It didn't seem possible. The dogs were basically rotting, their skin hanging off in pieces. Like they'd been killed, left out in a shallow grave for a week and a half and then allowed to return to life.

Believe it or not, I didn't care either way. They were an opposition that needed to be dealt with.

"Shoot the dogs", I ordered.

"What about him?" one of the men asked, motioning to the man being devoured by the canines.

I looked over to see the man's movements slowing down. The dogs grabbed at his arms and legs, tugging in quick jerks to get their fill of meat. I heard his gurgling cries as his throat was being torn open, blood bubbling into his mouth and chest. Then I watched in fascinated horror as one of the animals ripped open his stomach. A fresh scent of copper-ish blood filled the air as the man's intestines spilled onto the ground, the dogs leaping at the new food source.

"That man is dead, shoot the fucking dogs!" I yelled.

The men faltered, not sure of what to do. Not sure how to react to the surreal situation. I took it as it was and acted. In the animal kingdom, there are predators and there are prey. I knew the second we ran, the dogs would be on us. It was better to dispose of them now.

The men hesitated for four seconds. Four seconds too long. One of the animals looked up and over at us. It growled and started towards our position, intent on its new kill.

"Fuck it!"

I stepped past the men, leveled my AK and opened fire.

The air was filled with the _budda, budda, budda, budda, budda _sounds of rapid assault fire. I filled the animal with enough brass to put it down twelve times. Huge chunks of flesh and bone blew off the creature, flying through the air.

And it still kept coming.

"_Jesus, what are these things?"_ I thought as the creature landed dead at my feet with a loud yelp, even more torn up and dead than when it had first appeared. I looked back up to see that the other dogs were now aware of us. I leveled the rifle at the remaining dogs and pulled the trigger.

I got off four rounds before the gun jammed.

"GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!" I screamed, dropping the AK and grabbing the hand gun on my belt.

Even though the AK's were designed to not jam, there was always a first time for everything.

I couldn't afford to waste the ammo on body shots. Going for the head would put them down immediately. I aimed for the first dog and pulled the trigger, watching a hole appear in its head, right between the eyes before it made a face plant in the dirt.

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM.

I did the same thing to the others, putting them all down in succession. And then the gun went dry as the last dog leapt at me.

Dropping the pistol, I side stepped the animal. It sailed past me in mid flight, just long enough for me to get its head in a choke hold. For a dead thing, the creature was surprisingly tough as it thrashed in my grip. It snapped its jaws just inches away from my face, hungry for my blood. I tightened my grip, afraid I was going to lose the animal, and with my free arm I pushed its head in the opposite direction of my choke hold.

In my grip, I felt the creature's neck snap in two, like a twig. An audible crunch, snapping of vertebrae and it was over. The dog stopped moving and I let it drop back down into the mud. Brushing myself off, I retrieved my weapons, reloaded them and approached the rest of the squad, who had been standing there the entire time with their thumbs up their asses or their dicks in their hands, respectively.

"Move" I ordered.

**III**

The first obstacle was nothing compared to what we faced next. We had made it past the fencing area and into an open courtyard. There we lost another man to one of the many land mines that had been littering the ground. From there we ventured through several of the concrete bunkers and outside again. We had moved into another open area, this time in what appeared to be an entrance to a garage area or some other sort of vehicle storage. Metal shutters littered the cement enclosures on each side. At least ten total.

Somewhere in the distance, the other three men and I heard a pig like scream. We all turned and trained our guns, unsure of where to shoot. Then the rain let up. The others started lowering their guard.

"Must've been another of those fucking dogs" on of the men said with a laugh.

Out of nowhere, something dropped down from the roof of one of the garages.

There was an awful wet slicing sound and then the screaming pain.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHH"

The man screamed out as a hunched figure landed in front of him. I saw something plop down onto the dirt ground, just between the man's feet.

It was the man's AK. And the his hands were still wrapped around it.

"AHHHHHH, OH MY GOD!" he continued to cry out.

I watched as he screamed in horrified agony, raising the bloody stumps of his arms. The creature in front of him had its back to us. But from this distance I could see that it was a foot shorter than the terrified man. It was hunched over and even in the darkness I could see that it had green scales all over its muscular body. The feet made it appear as though it were some sort of bipedal dinosaur. I watched as it arched its arm in a long swipe, towards the man's head. There was a loud 'gusht' sound, like something cutting through meat and the man stopped screaming. His head hit the dirt and his body followed a few seconds later. The creature turned to face us, revealing a squashed head with reptilian features. The arms ended in long half foot claws. It opened its mouth and screamed the same pig like scream, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth.

A normal person would have looked at the creature in disbelief, unsure of what to do. Never having encountered such a thing, what other response was there? But you push such notions out of your mind and get the job done. Obstacles can be overcome, enemies killed, problems solved.

I once again leveled my rifle at the creature. Only this time, my squad weren't such pussies. This time there was no hesitation. This time it was shoot first, then ask questions later.

Much later

Automatic fire tore through the creature, making it dance and twitch and squeal. It was amazingly durable. The three of us emptied full thirty round clips, ejected them once they were empty and then depleted another half until the thing was dead. It wouldn't have taken as much if the others had been better shots.

I learned later, that Umbrella had used the B.O.W.s known as Hunters to test various recruits.

We were just about to move again when another two of the green creatures dropped down into the area. The first one was quick. In a leap and three running steps it was on me, driving me onto the ground and on my back before I even had time to react. I landed with an 'umph', and felt the muddy ground give way underneath me.

"FUCK IT!" I called out.

The creature was just about to strike me down when I reared my leg up and into its chest, keeping it at bay. It squealed as it tried to claw at my head. I could feel my leg giving way as it used its powerful haunches to drive itself toward me. At this rate, the thing would finish me.

It kept screaming and screaming and screaming for me, so I did the first thing that came to mind. I grabbed my rifle and shoved the barrel into the creature's mouth as it screamed for my blood. Pulling the trigger I watched as the weapon tore through the its head and out through the back, taking skull and brain with it. Even as I did this, the creature's blood rained back down onto my face, but I disregarded it. This thing needed to die.

In no time, it was dead and I kicked it off of me. I stood up and wiped the thick green blood off of myself. All this had happened in twenty two seconds.

The second one was quicker. It jumped up into the air, taking us by surprise and coming back down just as quickly. I marveled at its power as the thing landed near one of the men and lashed out with its claws, cutting into the man's right leg, just below the knee, almost severing it. It was just about to finish him when one of the other men whistled, loud and long. The creature looked up just in time to see the man throw a knife at it.

The eight inch blade flew through the air with amazing accuracy and plunged itself deep into the creature's head, through its left eye socket. While not the most orthodox of methods, it certainly got the job down. It squealed out in pain before falling to the ground. The last soldier went over to it and emptied a clip into the animal before retrieving the knife.

We both looked over at the other man who was crawling on the ground in pain. Judging by the extent of the damage, it wouldn't take long for the blood loss to catch up with him. The man's leg was attached by a poor collection of loose skin and muscle. If we didn't get him out in time, he was a just another body bag. But the mission came first.

As we turned to leave, the other soldier asked "What about him?"

I looked him in the eyes, then looked over to the man writhing on the ground, then back to the soldier again.

"_What about him_?" I repeated back to him.

My disconcern was evident to the man.

"Man, you're one cold mother-fucker aren't you?"

He didn't even know the half of it. But what I saw later was even something that was cold by my standards.

**III**

I could only assume that every path that could be taken would lead to the same destination. So it was no surprise that we met up with some of the other men. Well, two to be more exact.

We were making our way through what used to be either a laboratory or a storage facility when I saw it. Through a door that had been welded shut I witnessed Nicholi and another soldier in a desperate standoff with more of the Hunters within a hallway. I stopped and watched through a slit in the top of the door as they fired back down the hall they had come through. There had to be at least five of the creatures. And judging by how much brass was being fired, they didn't look like they were going to go down quietly. This became apparent more so to Nicholi. Who stepped behind the other man to reload.

"WE CAN'T KEEP THIS UP!" the man yelled.

I immediately understood why. There were more of the creatures pouring into the hallway. If they stood their ground then they were fucked. Which was why Nicholi did what he did next.

I watched as he aimed down and low, at the back of the man's legs. He pulled the trigger on his AK and peppered the man's legs

CRACK, CRACK, CRACK

"AHHHHHHH" he screamed out as Nicholi turned and looked through the door, noticing me for the first time since we had collected our gear at the start of the course.

"Survival of the fittest" he said before running off down the hallway to the right leaving the other man to his death.

I watched as the creatures pounced on the man and his screams died away in the chorus of animal–like cries and the sounds of flesh tearing and ripping. I could even hear the sounds of the man's blood spraying against the door as I turned away. The loud thumps of the creatures hitting the door reverberated through the room as they feasted.

"What is it?" the other man with me asked, pushing past me to look through the hole.

I was just about to warn him with one of the creatures arms shot through the hole.

"Uggggh!"

The man didn't even have time to react as the claws skewered him through the head and stuck in there, killing him instantly. His body went slack and his weapon clattered to the ground as I turned away, the creature trying in vain to pull the man through the small hole. All it did was make the corpse thump against the metal numerous times, like a rag doll.

Nicholi had used his team member as bait, letting him hold off the creatures so that he could get away. It was both irresponsible and horrid. The mission always comes first and to complete the mission you need every man available to you. But at the same time I had to admire that Nicholi treasured survival over teamwork. Even so, there was more to survival when it came to that man. Something that was hidden in the shadows. An ulterior motive.

**III**

Nicholi, a few men from the other four squads and myself were the only ones who made it out alive that day. A total of only eight survived from the initial thirty six. We were since given positions as members of Umbrella's security detail.

All of us, that is, except Nicholi.

I never knew what became of him after that day. All that I could gather since that fateful day on Rockfort was that we had become unspoken rivals, always trying to out-do each other. This was more Nicholi's case than it was mine. I could see it in his eyes when we crossed paths through the course, right before his teammate fell to the Hunters. I've only ever been concerned with the mission and survival. But with Nicholi, I knew he'd have complications that kept him from truly succeeding. For as much as a soldier and fighter that he was, the man had one huge defect:

Nicholi was an _opportunist._ And in war, the opportunists never last long. Not when they're only concern is getting what they want at the sake of the mission. Because the mission always comes first. That's how you make it out alive.

I learned sometime later what Umbrella was really up to. You see enough fucked up things in one day and you eventually begin to connect all the dots. The facility featured, among other things, a repair garage, underground B.O.W. and virus storage facilities, direct access to a subterranean airport, an industrial cargo elevator and turntable, administration offices and a sophisticated control room. It became clear that in working for Umbrella, we'd be tasked with infiltration as well as a host of other jobs ranging from retrievals to cleaning up their mistakes, should any ever occur.

It was no wonder why either way, we'd have been dead men that day. Can't let men leave with any secrets. And you have to make sure that the men are up to the job.

**III**

I wake up back in the same sewer. I have no idea how long I'd been here but I know that it has been long enough. The good news was that I'm not dead yet. I try moving my arm and am rewarded with a sharp and excruciating stab of pain where I'd been shot. It's enough to wake me up and put the adrenaline back into my system, pumping whatever blood I had not lost yet through my body.

I keep doing this several more times, moving my arm around in circles letting the pain move through me. The sensation is somehow, liberating. It gives me the reassurance that I'm not dead yet. I can feel something in my arm grinding against something else when it hits me.

The bone stopped the bullet. Now the only problem was that I still had a chunk of metal lodged in my arm. And with no knife on me to pry it out, there weren't many other options. Going to a hospital would be a death sentence. With all the cops in the practically the fucking state looking for me, I wouldn't get very far. That was, if someone else didn't take me out first.

But I couldn't stay down in this sewer forever.

With no other ideas, I strip off my helmet, mask, balaclava, vest and shirt in order to get a better look at the damage. Even in the dark light, I can make out the quarter sized hole in my shoulder. The bleeding's stopped and only continues to ooze a miniscule amount. Which means that the damage isn't extensive. If that woman hadn't been standing in the way, the damage would have been much more extensive. The woman had acted as an obstacle for the bullet slowing it down and altering it's trajectory before hitting me. By that time it had slowed enough to cause the only minimal damage that it had. Had there not been a meat shield in the way, the sniper round would have gone right through me.

This was all moot as I took my shirt and twisted it up into a rat tail. I place it in my mouth, knowing how much what I'm about to do is going to hurt. Without any hesitation I plunge my forefinger and thumb into the hole in search of the bullet. Fire and stabbing pain shoot through my body, like someone is taking a rusty knife to my shoulder. My fingers get slick with new blood and I grunt through the pain. I could possibly be doing more damage to myself. To anyone else this would be crazy and negligent behavior. But to me, it's just another day at the office.

My fingers eventually grasp the small hunk of metal and pluck it from the nest of flesh and bone with some well deserved tension. I toss it into the sewer water without a second thought and then proceed to patch myself up as best as possible.

It's tough. I want to pass out again from pain and exhaustion but I tell my body that there is still work to be done. Someone had wanted me dead, wanted to make sure there was nowhere to run to. They wanted to hunt me. Use me for sport, get back at me, make my life fucking miserable. Hell, who cares? Loose ends need to be tied up, questions answered, and graves filled.

It's time to take the fight to the enemy.

**Author's note: Some lines used in this chapter are from the film "Lord of War"**

**This chapter was a pain in the ass to title, hopefully it fits. Also, some may notice that it is a little shorter than the others. I just didn't want to cram a whole lot.**


	6. Seizure of Power

**Everybody dies. You can't stop i****t, you can't ran away from it. **Big Boss: _Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots_

The survival instinct. So many people don't even know they have it. It's such an integral part of human nature, yet it hasn't been used for centuries. What we call survival now is nothing more than working pay check to pay check to fund the sorry fucking excuse we call our lives. No, real survival is the primal urge that sneaks into human consciousness. The push that keeps us going. It's what can allow a man to spend months in the woods, learning how to kill with his bare hands as nature intended. Or the drive that allows a man to hack off his own hand at the wrist to escape from chains of confinement. The instinct brings us back to what it truly means to be human. To what it truly means to be alive.

But maybe it's what pushes a person to keep going after experiencing bullet trauma. It forces one back on the mission, realigning your focus and making you prioritize what needs to be done to survive.

And what I needed to do was find the son of a bitch who wanted me dead and return the favor.

When I'm able, I move through the sewer system. For how long? I don't know. Minutes, hours, it doesn't matter. All I know is that the rumble and screeching of a subway station is close to me. Close to the seemingly endless network of tunnels and water and pipes and filth. Decaying gray and putrid stone work are all around me, laced with dirt and grime. The aged rock is a reflection of the society that has built it. Eventually, and don't ask how, I discover a maintenance worker's door that leads me from the sewers into a series of utility tunnels. Decaying gray is replaced with the lighter color of brick, cement and cinderblocks that create the underground area. Dull, florescent lighting illuminates the passage, casting shadows into the abyss.

The screech of the subway cars grows louder and I can even feel the air of the rushing vehicle make its presence known in the maintenance way. I follow it, unsure of where it will lead me, only knowing that it will bring me closer to my goal. A few turns down the halls and I discover a door marked 'Rail Access' in faded red paint.

Opening it, I find myself in the dark recesses of the underground subway system. A train rushes by, obscuring my view of the dimly lit tunnels and tracks ahead. I can't stay underground forever. So, without going topside, the subway is my only way out.

I remain in the shadows of the utility access way, biding my time. Waiting, patient, letting the seconds go by without actually thinking about them. This is one of the most important aspects of a soldier. To know when to strike and when to hold back, when to pull the trigger and when to allow the enemy to live. To know patience is one of the greatest weapons in a soldier's arsenal.

I feel the subway all around me. I feel the rumble of the passing trains elsewhere in the complex system of tunnels and tracks and entrance ways. Hollow voices that call out to me from that which is akin to a cave. Albeit a man made one. The air is both thick and cool, like it hasn't been touch for ages. There is a chill that is felt even through the material of my battle attire. The kind of chill that is only found under ground.

The chill of impending death. And strangely, I feel at one with it.

Given my current situation and state of affairs, I'm in no condition to go tromping through the streets. Not with every police officer in the city looking for me. And no doubt, Giuseppe Corleone and his men as well. Not with a bullet wound in my shoulder and several pints of blood missing. Any more than four and I'd be dead. I walk steadfast and unsteady at the same time, praying that the lightheadedness will wear off. That the endorphins and adrenaline will kick in. That I'll be able to shake this off and continue. But as it stands, I'm not operating at my highest potential.

Rushing out into the open in this state would be reckless and detrimental.

The only thing that I can't figure out is why some mobster, who has his hands in a whole city, would waste the resources on one man. And over such a minor indiscretion at that. Something stunk. And it sure as hell wasn't the sewer that I'd been nestled in for the last several hours. It didn't add up. But there would be time to dwell on this later. There was a mission to be completed, loose ends that needed tying. And a few more corpses to be sent to the morgue before the night is done.

I hear the screech of the train before I see its lights. Similar to a jet or some other instrument of war, warning of its presence before making itself known. I hang back in the dark corridor and wait for it to stop at the platform several feet ahead. In no time the long length of metal rushes past me like a giant steel caterpillar. It stops and I make my move.

Jumping down onto the tracks and making sure to avoid the high voltage running through the metal rungs, I race hurriedly to the end of the last car, hoisting myself up onto the edge of the back door. I wince as the sharp, stabbing pain in my shoulder jolts through my upper body. I push the thought from my mind and try to use it to my advantage. Allow it to wake me up and keep me going.

Work through the pain. Use it to your advantage. Let it tell you that you're still alive.

The train bucks and starts moving again and I slowly inch myself up, looking through the glass in the door and into the car.

Its emptiness allows me to enter, undetected. I shut the door behind me and inch myself along the ground in a crouch. Bright fluorescent lights shine overhead, buzzing and illuminating me. The one thing I hate about this situation is that I'm completely exposed in a choke point.

Nowhere to run, no where to hide. But then again, who's hiding? I'm just taking the fight to the enemy.

I make my way to the other end of the car in ten steps. Peeking up, I drop right back down when I see what's in the other car. One of Giuseppe's men, the same one that was with him when he visited me earlier in the day. He's dressed in sunglasses and a black suit coat with matching slacks. His hair gelled and slicked back. Just him and him alone. He's talking on a cell phone and is visibly armed. I can't move foreword and I can't stay where I am. Not unless I want to start a gun fight in such tight quarters.

I open the door of the car and step out onto the connection piece that holds the two cars together. The sound of the metal and the wind of the tunnel whip past me at a blinding speed. The subway system tears past me faster than my brain can comprehend. It also shakes the cars like hell as I try desperately to stabilize myself. I take one more look into the car to make sure the man hasn't seen me yet. When I'm satisfied, I crouch back down and holster the TMP. Reaching up, I tap on the glass of the other car door to get his attention.

Then I wait.

A few seconds pass by until I hear the door of the subway car open. The second I see the barrel of the Glock stick out of the door, I reach out in a lighting strike and clench down on the man's wrist. Keeping the gun pointed away from me, I pull him into the small passage way, struggling to keep steady as the train bucks and kicks underneath my feet. I lash out with my free hand, chopping into his throat. He chokes, thick rasping sounds resonate through his mouth as he attempts to gather his oxygen. It's a futile attempt. I've completely crushed his trachea.

He tries to yell in surprise as I grab the back of his head and shove him forward, sending him face first into the glass of the car door I had just come through. With all the force that I'm using, his head goes through it with a satisfyingly thick 'wumph' of impact. Shards of silver rain down to the floor as I pull the disoriented man back.

Then I send him hurtling over the side of the railing.

He screams out as he flies off the train, and I can hear his body hit the concrete of the tunnel.

"SQWEEIIIIIIIIIISSSH!"

A sickening wet slap of something hits the side of the subway car. I look back and see that the windows have been tinted with streaks of red, realizing that the man has most likely been splattered against the tunnel and car. One less obstacle to worry about.

I step back inside the car and survey the area. No one here. I glance down and notice the small sound of someone's voice. The man I've just killed must have dropped the cell-phone he was using. Picking it up, I put it to my head and listen to the person on the other end.

"Tony, Tony where the fuck are you? Tony, answer me you dumb mother fucker. This is serious, we can't be fuckin around right now. Tony…………. Fuck it, I'm coming back there. And when I do, I hope ta Christ you aint getting a blow job from some five dollar hook……"

I shut the phone and toss it to the side. Time is scarce. As much as I would like to kill the man, starting a firefight right now isn't the most advantageous of prospects at the moment. Besides, the city is a lot of ground to cover. Giuseppe could be anywhere in a place that he's invested such stock in. Leaving the man alive would be much more useful. At least that way I'd have some one to point me in the right direction.

Given he's in a talking mood that is.

**III**

The other man enters the car, gun drawn. He sweeps the area, looking for his companion. The first thing that he notices is the lack of overhead lighting in the car. The glass crunches under his feet and he sees that all the lights have been smashed out, plunging the car into darkness. Forget that his companion is nowhere to be found. He should be more concerned with why this car is so poorly lit.

Subways are notoriously cramped. However, tight spaces have their uses. Like holding oneself up above in the ceiling, using only their hands and feet to stay in place.

"What the fuck?" the man says, not understanding the situation.

I wait until the moment presents itself, then I drop down and rush him. He gets in a half turn before we collide, sending him sprawling to the floor. The man gets back up and points his gun at me. Reacting, I grab his wrist and wrench the gun away from me, out of his line of fire. I then step on his foot in order to keep him where I want him. He's near the vertical pole in the center of the car and I smash his arm against it, hard. One the second impact, he drops his weapon. I hear the gun clatter away and off to the side of the car. When the threat is eliminated I take my foot off of his and drive my boot into the man's chest, sending him to the floor. Stalking toward him, he tries to get up as I step down hard into his back. He cries out and starts getting back up once I've taken my foot off of him. Before he can make it to his feet, I grab his coat with both my hands, tossing him to the side and into a row of seats.

Even before he reacts I have my TMP pointed at him, the red dot of the laser sight is in the dead center of his head, right between his eyes. He holds up his hands in surrender.

"Take it easy man" he pleads. "Whatever you want, it's yours. Just don't fuckin kill me"

"Where is Giuseppe Corleone?" I ask, unflinchingly.

Through the red tint of my goggles, I see the man's eyes go wide. He understands what's being asked of him and he reacts. He goes for the sidearm I have strapped to me leg.

My mind goes blank, on autopilot. I reach for the emergency stop of the train and punch it. The train lurches, like a horse, throwing us both towards the front of the car. Shots are fired, going wild in the dark. I think ahead enough to hold onto something and fire back as the man is hurtled towards the end of the car. And before I know it, the car comes to a halt. I steady myself and look to see where my enemy has landed. He doesn't move, just lies crumpled in a ball. And judging from the pool of red spreading over his white shirt, one of the rounds hit its mark.

The man stirs, still alive, but barely conscious. I now have a decision to make:

Do I leave him here and stake out on my own for answers? Or do I use a valuable resource to find out what I want to know and save myself a lot of time and effort.

After seven and three fourths of a second I opt for the later. Knocking him out again with a swift kick to the head, I pick him up, collect my side arm and make my way back down the tracks. Back into the darkness.

**III**

I don't like torture. I really don't. Not because it's horrible and an evil way to get what you want.

But because it can take too fucking long.

A man is an interesting thing. They differ, one from the next. It goes without saying that when you torture a man, it may take you several minutes to get the answers you want out of them. Or several days. But regardless, every one of them eventually breaks.

The maintenance way that I had come through had long since been abandoned. The reasons or cause of this were a mystery. It didn't matter. There were still plenty of tools and other implements that had been left there. Tools that would be used towards, persuading the man to tell me what I wanted to know.

About forty five minutes after the incident in the train and I was sitting in an abandoned supply room, waiting for the mafia thug to regain consciousness. When he finally did, he was not especially thrilled.

"Wh…What the fuck is this?" he asked.

Of the left over items in the room I stood in were a set of steel chains. Perfect for hanging the man upside down from a load bearing steel girder in the ceiling, his arms pinned behind his back. The only source of light in the room was one over head bulb that hung as absently as the man did from his chains.

I walked into the light and saw fear grace the man's eyes as I answered his question.

"This is an interrogation" I answered, prodding him with my pistol.

"Ah…shhhhh, fuck man!" he breathes in pain as I poked the bullet hole in his stomach.

"Hmmm" I breathed through the gas mask. "Guess when I shot you in the gut, I aimed too high"

"What the fuck do you want from me?!" he asks, gritting his teeth in pain.

"The location of your boss, Corleone" I answer, folding my arms across my chest.

"Then we're in for a long fuckin night. Cause I ain't tellin you shit!" he says, spitting at me.

I wipe the saliva from my goggles before turning away from the man and walking several feet away, rummaging for something out of his line of sight. Turning back around, I heft the small black box and mess of colorful cords back towards him.

"Wh…what the fuck is that?" he asks, eyeballing the equipment.

"This", I say, depositing the objects underneath where he hangs, "Is a car battery hooked up to two jumper cables."

I touch both of the ends together.

SSSSSCRAAAAAAACK

A very loud crack and spark of electricity erupt from the cables.

"I won't go into details, but this is very, very painful" I tell him, waving the alligator clamps in his face, "Now, tell me where your employer is or I will be forced to cause you considerable agony"

The Mafioso's eyes go wide. Yet, in a surprising show of defiance he opens his mouth to speak again.

"You don't have the ba…."

I touch the cables to the man's testicles and keep them there for seventeen seconds. He screams and shakes violently as the large amount of voltage is delivered to his system. When the seventeen seconds are up, I remove the cables from his genitals, allowing the man to catch his breath.

"I'M GONNA FUCKIN KILL YOU!" he yells out through the pain.

I stand there for a few seconds before turning around and picking up a large wrench sitting on the nearby table, the length of a baseball bat. I test its weight in my hands for a few moments, before arching it as fast as I can and smashing it into the man's leg, just below the knee cap.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" he screams in pain as he's shifted in the air like a piñata. The sounds of chains ringing mixed with the audible noise of the man's leg snapping in two echoes through the room.

I drop the tool to the cement and watch as he starts to cough up blood. Thick splotches hit the ground and pool underneath him.

I'm actually surprised to see that he's still holding on. A blow like that would most likely caused someone blackout from shock and blunt force trauma. Any other day, I would have aimed for his ribs. Breaking those would no doubt drive one or two of the broken bones into the man's organs, leaving him to bleed out internally. But I'm not done with him.

Not by a goddamn second.

"I'd rather die than give up the boss" he coughs.

Loyalty. It can be ones own undoing in this life. Something that this man will discover soon enough.

"You're going to die anyway" I tell him. "The only thing you have to worry about his how much pain you want to go through before you do" I tell him, pulling an oil drum filled with water underneath him. "This area has been abandoned for decades. No one even knows it exists anymore. No one is going to hear you down here. Give me a location and I'll end this right now"

"I aint givin you shit, man!" He starts to laugh. "Every cop in the city and our people are all gunnin for you right now. You've got nowhere to go! YOU'RE GONNA DIE!"

He screams as I grab a wad of his hair and pull him closer to me.

"The Death can not die" I tell him, throwing his head back.

"Your boss has no idea who he's fucked with. _No idea_. Look at me. You think I'm afraid of him? Afraid of the police? Afraid of the law? _I'm above the law. _Do you think this is the first time I've tortured someone? Do you?"

The man whimpers slightly, shaking his head.

"I can make this last for _days_. I once kept a man alive for a week till he told me what I wanted to know. Every day was brutal and horrendous for him. _Eventually I started removing organs_. And I'm going to do the same to you until you tell me what I want to know"

After the conversation with him, I get to work. And things become more interesting.

I started off with the oil drum, dunking the man in there head first, time and time again. Seeing how long he could go without oxygen, even with the injuries he's sustained thus far. To any other man, death would have been a gift. But I was not here to give any sort of gifts. I wanted my goddamn answers. The faux drowning lasted for more than a half hour before I got bored. I could only watch him thrash in the water for so long before I moved on to more conventional methods, breaking the man's fingers one at a time. Then his toes. The small bones of his hands and feet snapping like little twigs.

He was tough. Or very stubborn. Even with a gunshot wound and all of his digits broken, he still wouldn't give up his boss.

So that's why I took out the bolt cutters next. The man pleaded for me to stop and then screamed as I used the instrument to hack off his fingers one at a time. When three fingers and a thumb lay at my feet, I was beginning to lose my patience.

The other thing that I hate about torture is the screaming. It gets really fucking annoying.

"Oh God, thank you. Thank you!" he half cried as I brought him down from the ceiling, setting him on the floor while he was still wrapped in the chains.

But I wasn't done yet. Not even when I picked up the container of kerosene and began dousing the man with it as he cursed me and pleaded for me to stop. The experience is somewhat interesting. Trying to get inside someone's head that is. Attempting to break them. Trying to comprehend what their mind is going through as they're helpless to the carnage that is set upon them. To know what they must be thinking and feeling during such a time would be of great insight for me. To know that his life rests in my hands.

I sprayed the fuel over the man's body until I was satisfied that he was drenched in the kerosene. Then I struck the lighter that I had found on him and lowered the flames to his body.

"Last chance", I tell him.

The man pleaded for me to stop and I ignored him. The only way I was going to stop was for him to give me a location. Or if he died.

And at this rate it appeared as though I was going to need to find someone else to torture.

The lighter touched him and he went up rather quickly. The fire tore at his body as he screamed and thrashed on the ground in horrid agony. There was nothing for him to do, nowhere to go. He was completely powerless to put himself out. I'd like to think that it isn't death that scares people so much as the inevitability of it. The longer it is strung out, the more the fear. If the person can see their death coming, then it will certainly frighten them went on for a minute before I finally got what I wanted.

"AHHHHHHHH! ALRIGHT, FUCK! I'LL TELL YOU WHAT YOU WANNA KNOW! JUST PUT ME OUT FOR FUCK'S SAKE. JESUS GOD ALMIGHTY IT BURNS, AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"That's good." I say, tipping the oil drum of water over with my foot and putting out the flames.

The man's body smokes and he whimpers in pain as the second to third degree burns cover his entire body. Much of his skin was red, charred and even blackened in some areas. Like he'd spent a second within a giant oven. His hair had even burned away in patches. It had the added benefit of cauterizing the wounds where his fingers had once been. Smoke was even trailing off his body near some of the burn markings. I walk over and stoop down next to him.

"Now, about that location" I ask.

**III**

According to the underling, Corleone was held up in one of his casinos on the west side of the city. I took the dying man with me. Even though he was on death's door, I needed his car and I wanted to make sure that he wasn't sending me on a fool's errand. Or into a trap. Getting him out of the subway system was no easy task either. What with the burns and him smelling like bacon. But regardless, he had parked his car in an inconspicuous area of town, in an alley just off of one of the main roads. It was remarkable that it had remained undetected.

I shoved him in the passenger's seat and made him wear a hooded sweatshirt that I stole off of a street vendor when he wasn't looking. Then it was a fifteen minute drive across town with me at the wheel. One hand on the wheel and the other with my gun pointed at the man's side. Just for insurance purposes.

I pull the car to a stop along the side of the road, a good block away from the casino.

"Come on man, you gotta take me to a hospital" he pleaded, staring down at where his fingers used to be.

I ignore him while I think of the best way to go about infiltrating the building. No doubt, for a casino, it most likely has every man on Giuseppe's pay roll inside of it, waiting for me, knowing that it's only a matter of time before I find them. The only question is 'do I take the back entrance or the front'?

"Where is Guseppe's office?" I ask him.

"Third storey up. Please….I'm dyin here" he continues.

The casino is roughly four or five storey's high. The front has big glass doors and windows, allowing all inside to see the flashing lights and games. Perfect for luring people in. And if I know how people act and think, then they'll expect me to do the exact opposite and enter through the back.

"Did you fuckin hear me? Take me to the hospital, you got what you wanted. I'm dying here man"

"Not yet you're not" I reply as an idea arises.

**III**

I've come up with better plans in the past. More experienced methods of completing a mission. But then again, those times all had outlines for what needed to be done. Briefings, maps and dossiers. Everything a person would need to get a job done. Now, now it was all about survival. And when it comes down to survival, sometimes the best thing to do is to improvise.

I shift the car into neutral and pull off into the middle of the road. It's getting late, and there are hardly and vehicles out at this hour. The radio said that a state of emergency had been called in order to deal with me. Or strings had been pulled to make the streets one giant hunting ground.

Call it what you will.

"Is there a back entrance, kitchen access, anything?" I ask the dying man.

"Y…yeah. Deliveries in the back. C…cooks have a s…side entrance through that alley" he points, with his only remaining index finger.

"Good", I say, gunning the engine. I watch as the speedometer jumps to life, hitting fifty, then seventy, then ninety. Tires screech on the pavement, a thick scent of rubber travels through the air.

The man asks what I'm doing just as I put the car into gear. The car goes of like a bat out of hell, racing for the bright destination of heaven which is the casino. The timing has to be just right. No room for error, no slip in time, no miscalculations. I keep my hands on the steering wheel, knowing that the skin of my knuckles is white underneath my dark gloves as I grip it. The man screams for me to slow down. I ignore him. When we're about sixty yards away from the entrance, with the car doing seventy, I open the door and jump, landing in a large, standing pile of garbage. Even with the cushioning, the landing is tremendously painful, sending shocks up and down my body. But I can't dwell on that now. The timing of this is everything.

_Four__ seconds_ from impact, I'm on my feet and running for the alley.

_Twenty three seconds_, I'm at the kitchen entrance.

_Thirty two seconds_, I'm kicking in the door and staring at a clean, stainless steel kitchen with a vast assortment of sinks, dishes, prep tables, ovens and other cooking implements.

_Thirty eight seconds_, two armed men enter the kitchen, guns drawn. Without alerting the rest of the men in the building, I grab for the closest things I can lay my hands on.

_Forty one seconds_, a butcher knife and meat cleaver sail through the air. One catching a man in the throat, the other hitting dead center of the second man's forehead with a sickening 'thunk' of slicing meat and bone.

They don't call it a meat cleaver for nothing.

_A minute and seventeen seconds_, I'm making my way out the door of the kitchen and into a back hallway of the casino, looking for the elevators. My search is fruitful when I find a service elevator for the kitchen and other staff.

_Three minutes, _I'm walking out of the elevator and standing in an upper hallway, overlooking the ground floor of the casino. A man stands a few meters away, looking down at the lobby, screaming at men to control the chaos that has erupted down there. I walk, heel to toe, and make my way towards him, hoping to catch him off guard.

_Three minutes and twenty seven seconds, _I kick out the man's knee caps from behind, bringing him to a kneeling position. I then grab the back of the his head and the underside of his chin. In one quick, forced motion, I twist in opposite directions and there is a sick crunch of bone as his neck is broken. I let the body fall to the ground and out of sight.

Looking down, I see the carnage I've caused. They expected me to go through the back door. The front wasn't even a viable option for them. Not till they heard the glass of the front cave in as the automobile tore through the entrance to the casino. The car is totaled and jammed into what used to be a bar. There are overturned slot machines, roulette wheels, black jack tables. The works. Cards and poker chips litter the floor. Plants and tapestries are over turned and torn down. The smoke fills the air as men flood the ground floor, attempting to put out a few smoldering fires and pull the corpse of the tortured man from the wreck.

It all reflects the gamble that they've made, trying to hunt me down. And they've all lost.

I grab a frag grenade from my hip and pull the pin, tossing it over the side of the balcony and into the lobby. The men turn to look at it once it lands before it explodes seconds later.

BOOOOOOOOOOOM

The explosive detonates, bisecting the closest man in half and sending shrapnel into three others. The men are once again disoriented and distracted by the further chaos.

Time finally slows down for me as I grab the TMP and level down at the forty or fifty men I see below me. All of them have the potential to become a problem. To hinder my progress. And I can't let that happen. Taking aim, the laser sight finds its first target and I open fire. The man's head practically explodes in a red puff and he falls to the ground in a shock.

I target the next man, and the next and the next, sweeping the gun from side to side. The weapon jumping in my grasp as bullets are expelled from the muzzle in tiny sonic booms. The rounds all hitting their marks. Bodies twitching and jerking as the bullets tear through the men. Every spent shell casing a reflection of the life I've taken. Each one expelled from the TMP like every life that comes and goes in this world.

Starts out with a bang, then falls to the ground. Forgotten.

The men never knew what hit them. Their corpses litter the floor of the once grand casino.

Footsteps to my left alert me to a new threat. I drop the empty TMP and reach for my loaded side arm, targeting the doorway just as the three men round the corner.

BAM, BAM, BAM

Three perfect head shots. The men fall in a clutter, half propelled by their own momentum and then stopped by the brass.

I make my way back to the elevator and take it one floor up. To where Corleone's office is. In no time at all, I'm standing at the entrance to the man's office with my reloaded weapons. Two doors are all that separate me from him. And all of this only took six minutes.

I kick in the doors to Giuseppe's office. The two thick oak doors swing open, almost like the doors of an old wild-west saloon, minus the back swing. I level the TMP and sweep the entire area, taking notice of the lavish, oriental carpet, the gaudy artwork and false stone statues. A high hanging glass chandelier decorates the ceiling of the office. Even through the gas mask, there is a thick, old smell of ancient cigar smoke that clings to everything in the room. It comes on heavy, almost the same way a new car or gunpowder smells. A testament to the man's smoking vice. But all of these images pale to the very giant one that lies before me.

There are two tragedies in life. One is not getting what you want. The other is getting it.

The giant wooden desk is fifteen feet before me. And slumped over the side of it is the corpse of a man. In four quick paced steps I check the body and a very large puzzle piece falls into place.

Giuseppe Corleone. The man's dead body sits before me. A single gunshot round to the head an indication of how he died.

I lose my composure for two seconds as my mind tries to comprehend what has happened. The man that wanted me dead, that put all his resources in finding me, is now dead before me. The why and how are as big of a mystery as is the reason for the man hunt on me in the first place.

"Freeze ya fuckin asshole!"

Stupid. Let myself get distracted. Didn't mind my surroundings. And now it's going to cost me.

My hand wants to go to the weapons on my person. Put I decide to act otherwise. One wrong move and I'm no better than the fat Italian man that lies dead before me. I hear the other man move toward me and allow him to continue holding me at gunpoint for the moment. Try to get some answers out of him while I can.

"You've been a real pain in the ass this whole day haven't you?" he says.

_Keep him talking, buy some time, wait for an opening_. _The foolish believe that they're in control, it'll be their downfall._

"You're boss. Someone finally have the stones to do him in? Move up the ladder in rank" I ask.

The man scoffs as he jams what I can only assume is a small caliber handgun into my back.

"You're a little slow to the party. You think the boss would waste this much time one some fuckin chump who blew him off? Naw, we got someone else putting money in our pockets to put you where he wants you"

_Come on, give me an opening._

He continues to run his mouth, "Someone who's got the cash to throw away. Someone who wants you dead real fuckin bad. Just gotta be on his terms. Doesn't matter to me. Just puts me in a higher tax bracket"

Giuseppe Corleone was never the target. He was only a red haring. Someone else was gunning for me. Why? I don't know. But I intend to find out.

In the reflection of the glass viewing window I seethe man throws his head back and laugh, giving me the opening I was intending for.

I move to the side, reach back and grab the man's gun arm, latching on with a vice like grip and pinning it to my side. The gun pokes out just underneath my arm pit. With my other arm I rear back with everything I have and elbow the man in the face, feeling his nose almost disintegrate underneath the hard bones of my arm. Amazingly, he continues to wrestle his arm out of my grip, punching me in my ribs and grabbing at my battle attire. He fires several shots into the viewing window. The nine millimeter rounds rip through the glass, weakening its structure. Soon the weapon clicks dry. He drops it and I loosen my grip on him, kicking the man in the stomach to create some distance.

Now things get interesting.

We square off and he comes at me, blood spewing from his broken nose. Without thinking, he runs at me and throws a punch. With ease, I catch it and hold tight. My other hand goes for the man's throat and I turn him around, thrusting both of us toward the window. We impact the glass and it shatters immediately, causing both of us to fall four storeys, roughly more than forty feet. We fall with him underneath me, still held in place. My stomach flips inside of me as the wind whips past us, gravity pulling us down towards the pavement.

As we plummet all I can think is, "_It isn't the fall that gets you_"

In seconds we hit the ground. I black out only to regain consciousness a few seconds later. I'm amazed that I'm still alive until I look down. The man had almost been crushed completely due to our combined weight and the force of gravity. There is a widening stain of blood on the side walk, underneath his frame, which is contorted and twisted at odd angles. Broken bones poke out of him in some spots, a fractured skull leaks blood and brain matter. A stunned look hangs in his dead, blood filled eyes. The fall taking everything away from him. But it wasn't the fall that did the man in.

"No, not the fall. It's the sudden stop at the bottom"

Physics can be interesting.

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM

The rounds hit the asphalt inches from my head, their source somewhere off to my right. Then the roar of a car engine erupts from the streets as I try my best to shake off the fall. Looking to my right, I see a sedan barreling down on me, a man sticking out of the passenger side window and firing a gun. The rounds go wide as I run at the car rather than away from it, the two of us playing a sick game of chicken. In seconds I jump and roll onto the hood and windshield, gritting my teeth in pain as the bullet wound in my shoulder flairs up. I hang on, bracing myself as the car flies down the darkened road. I look over and see the passenger lean out of the window, trying to aim at me.

I lash out with a kick, making him drop the gun. The driver and passenger are stunned at what they witness. Too stunned to react to me as I grab my sidearm and fire into the car, through the windshield until the magazine is empty. The driver's chest blossoms into red as the rounds shatter the glass and dig into his torso. He slumps over the wheel and the car begins to pick up speed. I glance behind me and see the side of a strip mall coming at us. Just before we impact, I push off of the hood, run the length of the roof of the car and jump, landing in a roll, letting the momentum carry me to safety.

VRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRCCCCCCCCCCCCCCAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCHHHHHHH!

Once again, I pick myself off the road and make my way to the wrecked car, searching for answers. The sedan was smoking as its engine died off. The crash had left the vehicle half in and half out of a totaled liquor store, the passenger side the only accessible door. With my weapon drawn, I come to the passenger side of the car, prying the door open. The windshield had shattered, sending the driver's body into the store only to be buried under the ruble of brick and motor. The passenger was also dead by way of blunt force trauma. I pull the door open, sweeping glass away from the wreck. As I began to go through the body for any clues or leads, the man's cell phone began to ring, somehow surviving the crash.

Pulling the device out of the man's jacket pocket, I checked the call ID to see that the number was unlisted. Opening it and placing it to my ear I heard a man on the other end speak.

"This is Abdi. What is your status?"

The accent sounded African, possibly Nigerian or maybe Somolian. I couldn't tell. But I kept on listening, hoping that the man on the other end would reveal his location to me.

"Situation has hit a snag" I falsely told him. "Subject is still at large but we have men closing in on him"

"Good. Just remember, I want him alive. When he is captured, bring him to the site for the new hotel, out in the desert"

"Yes sir" I said, before closing the phone and tossing it.

The dessert. The enemy was waiting for me there. The battle field had been set. The men readied. It was time to finish this.

**Author's note: Sorry for not updating this sooner. Been going through a rough time with school and such. Haven't been able to really sit and think, blah, blah, blah. The important thing is that this story is almost done and I'm thinking about my next two. Let's just say I'm thinking about a sequel to my Leon/Ada story as well as jumping on the bandwagon for a post RE5 story. So stick with me here, give me some ****feedback**** and I'll see what I can dish out next.**

**P.S. I suck at sound effects. ;)**


	7. The Beginning isthe End is the Beginning

**God help us all **

_Edward Blake/The Comedian_

_The Watchmen._

I hot wire a parked car and drive it out to the desert. Rather than head right to the site of the hotel, I opted to stop the car a mile from the site and go the rest of the way on foot. I didn't want to get shot before I had a chance to get my bearings on the enemy. After pushing the car over a cliff for good measure, I took the long walk toward the enemy, the metal frame of the hotel in the distance. Like a microscopic citadel.

I had been through much in the last few hours and was in no shape for a fight. I was hungry, facing blood loss and physical trauma. My muscles were like dead weights, stiff and resistant. My lungs burned, trying to get the oxygen they needed to keep me moving. And my uniform was caked with a mixture of dirt, sewage, and all manners of blood. Not just my own. Everything screamed for me to stop. But behind the demand to halt, was _the drive_. It's the drive that kicks in when you're facing exhaustion and death. Yet instead of laying down to die, you keep going. The push to finish what needs to be finished.

As a solider you force yourself to continue even when you're on your last legs. Above all the mission has to be completed. Even if it means dying. But The Death can not die.

As I journeyed forward, thoughts raced through my head, poking and prodding the recesses like a curious child.

_Why was I targeted? Why had there been so many steps taken against me? Why the hiring of a proxy to get the job done? _

But like I've said before, I guess what it comes down to is that sometimes you go to the war. And other times, the war comes to you.

In either situation, it's necessary to be ready for anything. To know when the first attack will come. Like one giant game of chess. Thinking one hundred steps ahead, trying to get into the other man's head. To know what he'll do before he does it. Wait, plan, and act. It's how all the best men of war think. How the men who were meant to survive, lived through the hell and shit and fucking horror of it all.

And sometimes it isn't as easy as just forcing yourself through a trial. I was down to forty one rounds in the TMP and two clips for the sidearm. Two grenades were all that remained of my explosives. And as it stood, there was no way of knowing if I would be able to utilize them effectively. I'd have to do what I could with what I had.

As I walk I find it fitting that the man I have to fight chose a desert of all places. What better area to face death than a place where almost nothing survives. The shallow cold of the desert night lightly caressing ones body. Forget the urban cities of Iraq, the jungles of South America and Asia. A barren field of battle is perhaps the best. For a field that holds nothing but death is the most suitable for men to die on. With vultures waiting overhead to pick clean the bones of the fallen and rich earth to soak in their spilled blood. This is how it was centuries ago when men fought with spear and sword. Such a shame now that it reduced to nothing more than scenery.

In the span of twenty minutes I find myself on the outskirt of the hotel site. The building is nothing more than steel girders and flooring sections. The skeleton of the building itself, four or five storeys in height. Exposed pieces of rebar and concrete cover the bottom of the hotel and are somewhat defaced by sparse graffiti. No doubt left by the local youth. Surrounding the hotel site are various construction vehicles, left alone and lifeless in the night. A back-hoe, bulldozer, and a few bobcat bulldozers littered the ground. And rounding it out were a giant crane, towering above them all.

Given the height and space of the building, as well as the machinery littering the area, makes it nearly impossible to determine where the enemy is. And from what I can determine, he's armed with at least one sniper rifle. Based on the area that he'd secured for himself, there were bound to be other surprises waiting for me. Like trying to find a needle in a fucking haystack.

Everything about this screams 'trap'. A sane man would turn around and try to start his life anew somewhere else. But I know that that cannot be the case. This man found me once, tried to kill me. What's to stop him from doing it again? He knows I'm coming for him, after I figured everything out. It was only a matter of time before we both came to this stage. It has to end here.

As I looked down from the hill over-looking the hotel site, I know that the only way to approach this is to take the floors one at a time, from bottom to the top. I take the small incline down into the pit of the hotel site as silently as possible, kicking up mounds of loose dirt and soil. Once I make it to the bottom, I minimize the chances of being seen from a distance by going prone and crawling my way towards the building.

I reach the bulldozer, creeping up past the treds and around the front of the blade of the machine. I figure that I can make it to the building undetected by moving from one piece of machinery to the other and…

_**KRAK**_

Somewhere in the distance, a gunshot cuts through the darkness, like the howls of the distant coyotes. A millisecond later, that same round grazes my shoulder before slamming into the dirt behind me. Stinging pain erupts in my arm as I roll to evade the following shots, kicking up clouds of dry earth in my wake.

_**KRAK, KRAK, KRAK, KRAK**_

I stop when a sentence, chiseled in gray metal, stares back at me.

FRONT TOWARDS ENEMY

"_Ah hell"_

_**KRRRRRRRRRRRRBOOOOOOOOOOOOOM**_

I get about 6 running steps, raw adrenaline surging through me, before the explosion of a claymore mine picks me up and throws me several feet. I land on the ground, next to the unfinished entrance of the hotel. My body aches as new pain and discomfort travel through it. Like opening up an old wound and pouring salt in it.

"_Don't pass out. Don't pass out. Don't pass out"_

I move to my feet, feeling like the world and all the problems that it has ever endured is just pushing me back down. I fight back, forcing my way through the pain like swimming up through an ocean and breaking the surface. My vision was doubled and I realize that the gas mask I wear finally gave out. A cracked red lens stares back at me as I tear the garment off my head, breathing easier. My helmet fared no better.

I toss the two items in the dirt and keep going, taking hold of the TMP and readying it as I shove my way past a plastic tarp of a mock doorway. Judging by the echo of the round breaking the silence of the night and a small flash of light, the man had to have been several levels up. I walk heel to toe, past collections of tools, large collections of wire and piles of unused concrete blocks. I stop every few steps, pressing my back against whatever cover I can find and listening.

Nothing. No sound. Which means whoever I'm stalking is acting accordingly. Staying in tune with all their senses in order to find the one small flaw that gives the enemy away. For that is how it is with men like us. When you live so close to death, you will never be able to see, hear or feel it coming. The death will steal you away at the slightest turn of events.

The first and second of floors were cleared before I felt the something settle lightly against my shoulder. A gray, powdery substance. Dust from a level up, dislodged by whoever was walking above me. As I move up to the third level, my boots scuff the concrete of the stairs and the laser sight of the TMP cuts through the dark haze of the building. I take the steps two at a time as silently as possible, making quick turns to cover my rear before proceeding farther up. The inky black of the building staring back at me, creating ample opportunities for the enemy to shoot me in the back at every turn.

I finish the trek upstairs, nearing the peak of the final step. The laser sight sweeps the level, back and forth. I notice a cement mixer and palates of wood stacked haphazardly along the level as well as mortar mixing equipment. Several sheets of drywall and glass panes are set up, creating walls and rooms to be. I move forward, deeper into the level, and that's when I notice the Dragunov rifle sitting against a collection of bricks and welding equipment. A weapon loaded with the same type of bullets that I had dug out of my shoulder in that sewer.

Something's not right. Why would he leave his weapon?

A flash of movement out of my peripheral vision, lighting fast and almost unnoticeable. I turn and level the machine gun, pressing the stock into my bleeding shoulder and fire.

_**Budda, budda, budda, budda, budda, budda, budda, budda, budda, budda.**_

The weapon jumps in my grasp as the rounds rip through the darkness and punch clean through the drywall, creating little puffs of smoke and dust as well as shattering several panes of glass. The man disappears as fast as it took to blink. And I'm now down to twenty two rounds in the machine gun. He's too fast. The little game of cat and mouse is taking a more clever turn. I knew immediately what he wanted me to do. Make me waste ammo, leaving me with nothing to fight him with.

I quickly followed the fading pad of footsteps against concrete, leading me deeper into the third level. When the sound stopped several yards away, I tried to listen for him, knowing he was just playing with me, hiding in wait and holding off until he could make the killing strike. There were too many spaces to try and keep track of. Too many doorways and partially constructed rooms for him to hide behind.

I was just about to sweep the northern most part of the area I stood in when I heard it.

_**Crunch**_

Glass breaking underfoot, directly behind me. Without thinking, I take a running jump and dive over a makeshift wall of steel siding and a bench holding a rotary saw, bullets trailing me like missiles from a fighter jet. I land and roll painfully before crawling back behind the wall for cover, bullets finding there marks in the steel with deafening bangs. I look to the left and right and instantly come to the conclusion that I've got nowhere to run to. No other cover to find. I'm a sitting duck.

I try poking my head out the right corner of my makeshift cover only to be rewarded with a bullet striking the ground inches from my head. He's too close, and armed with an AK-47 by the sound of the weapon. He'll be one me in a few seconds. I look over to my left and see the long row of what will be a hallway. Plenty of cover and will give me an opportunity to think. I stick the TMP over the top of my cover and blind fire the remaining ammo in the weapon. When the weapon clicks dry, I grab one of my remaining two grenades, pull the pin and run for the hallway, throwing the explosive as I sprint away from the gunfire.

_**BOOOOOM**_

It detonates as I run, fading adrenaline pumping through my veins. There's no way I can keep this up for much longer. I run the length of the hallway and make a sharp left. For a second I wonder whether he's still alive. Then I hear the grunting and cursing in a foreign language and I know I've at least made the man angry, if not something worse. That's good for me. Let him become enraged. Anger can be used effectively in battle. For rage has its downfall. It makes the enemy sloppy, easy to predict, and weak.

That's when an idea comes to me. If I had fallen for his traps, then why not the other way around?

**III**

If there is anything that is to be known about soldiers and strategists, it is that opportunity is something that has to be seized at the moment that it's seen. But opportunities can also be used to bait the enemy.

I took my remaining grenade and set it in a corridor that was adjacent to the open, unfinished edge of the building. Then I waited on the other side of it, in the darkness behind the steel walling and waited. I knew full well that the enemy was making his way to me. He had been leading and funneling me for the last day or so. Making me go where he wanted me to. It was time for me to do the same.

I wait, listening for him to get near. One step, then two. By the sixth I know that he's in view of the grenade. People are easy to read in any situation. If you're good at anticipating the human mind, it leaves nothing to chance. I've been able to develop the skill for years. And after so many battles, you become adept at knowing how people think and what they will do.

I watched as the enemy, the man who had identified himself as Abdi, move into my field of view. He was a tall, bald man of African ethnicity. He wore combat boots and camo pants along with a tactical vest. Numerous pouches hung off his belt, no doubt filled with ammo. He pauses as he sees the small explosive sitting on the ground waiting for him. He would think that I had dropped it. I wait, as he stoops down and picks it up. Then from the dark I hear him speak.

X "What the hell?" X

Fool. In war, giving away your position has just as many consequences as meeting the enemy on the field of battle face to face. And the man's lapse in judgment had cost him his life.

I reappear from the dark, almost as if I was a part of it and take aim. My finger tightens on the trigger of my sidearm.

_**BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM**_

As the holes appear in the body, he loses his footing and falls over the side of an unfinished floor. The dull thump and crashing sound that seemed miles away told me that the body had hit the ground several feet below, crashing into a collection of wood.

Racing cautiously back down to the ground level, I looked at where I thought he had landed. Strangely, all there was to see was a heap of wood and trash.

"Uhhhhhhh"

The voice comes from several yards away. That's when I noticed the trail of blood in the dirt. Like whatever had been laying at the landing site had dragged itself away. I follow it and find my quarry.

He's still alive as I near him. The automatic weapon he'd been using lays just inches from his reach. If he weren't in such tremendous pain, he might have been able to grab it. Looking down, I notice that his hand cups his right side, just underneath his ribs. The early morning light creeps up over the horizon and I see that the wound oozes fresh blood steadily. The blood itself, a sickly black color. Not a preferable sign for the man. My last round had pierced his liver. He'd be dead within five, perhaps ten minutes.

The mission was over. I wanted to leave him there to bleed out. But the curiosity was too much for me to just turn my back on.

"Why did you try and kill me?" I asked him.

He laughs, coughing up some blood before answering in a thick African accent, "It was almost a decade ago. In what you Americans called Operation Gothic Serpent. I was there that day. The day you and your men came to my area of the city. My home in Somolia"

Groaning, the pool of blood underneath him begins to spread out.

"That day I watched my older brother die. I was there, hiding. I saw you do it", he continues.

No matter what happens in life, the times that we experience and the lives that we touch and destroy always have a way of coming back to us. In other words, things will come back and biting you in the fucking ass.

"So this is what this was all about? Revenge for your kin?" I ask coldly, folding my arms.

He laughs for a few seconds before coughing up blood.

The man wipes his mouth and continues, "This was never about my country or yours. It was never about my brother. We were not close at all. No, the true reason for this was because I wanted to challenge you. Soldier to soldier. You understand don't you?"

I nod in agreement.

"You understand what it is to live for nothing more than your own survival. The natural selection of the human race. That is all I wanted out of this. To prove I was superior to you. It took me years. But _he_ finally told me where I could find you"

"_He?" _I wonder, thinking about who the man could be referring to.

Abdi continues to talk as his life leaves him, "Mr. Death they call you. Mr. Death, with those red eyes. The eyes of the Devil himself"

He almost smiles as he looks up at the sky, almost with a peaceful demeanor.

"Tell me. Was I…was I a capable soldier?"

There is a certain level of respect among soldiers. Men who are bred for war and nothing else. It's something no one else would be able to comprehend. An unspoken brotherhood that unites us no matter where we, what we do or who we kill. This isn't about sentiment. It is only about understanding. An ideal that only exists on the fields of battle.

"You nearly killed me. No other trained professional has ever been able to accomplish what you have in the last day. You can die knowing that", I answered him, indifferently crossing my arms.

He nods and looks up at the sky before reaching for something in his clothes. At first I tense up, thinking it's a weapon. When he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, I allow myself to calm.

The final nail in his coffin.

Abdi puts one in his mouth and lights it before offering me one. When all he gets for his troubles is a cold hard stare, he laughs to himself and smiles.

"That's right, none of you American's smoke anymore." He says before sighing and turning his head to look at me. "I guess _that man_ was right. This is war. Survival was _your_ responsibility"

He doesn't say anything more after that. I sit on a nearby boulder and watch as the man bleeds out with the sun of a new day continuing to rise. I want to be sure that this is where it ends. That the mission is complete. Abdi takes one last drag on his cigarette, his final breath, before flicking it away. It hits the ground and the embers of the tobacco die out. Just like his life that has been extinguished. I rise to my feet, walking toward the man and kneeling down. Placing a hand on his neck and keeping it there for a few seconds, I'm rewarded with the absence of a pulse. With this confirmed, I gather myself, my weapons and other gear and depart, walking towards the horizon and the new day.

"Mission completed"

I thought about burying him. Burying Abdi. But it was more appropriate to leave him where he had fallen. Let the animals have him. That is the natural order of things anyway. No matter what arrangements are made, caskets bought, services held or holes dug, there are never any graves truer than the spots at which men die on the battlefield. That is where they take there last breath, and it is where they should rightfully stay.

They say, "Evil prevails when good men fail to act." What they ought to say is, "Evil prevails."

After everything I've done, every story told, every life ended along with every shot fired, one can form an opinion of me. If that's the case, then tell me. Tell me I'm everything you despise. That I'm the personification of evil. That I'm what's responsible for the breakdown of the fabric of society and world order. Without operations like mine it would be impossible for certain countries to conduct a respectable war. Because bullets will change governments before votes or democracy, or peaceful negotiations.

Umbrella were fools. They tried and failed at creating the ultimate in bio-weapons. The wanted to make money off of home made monsters and things that men only see in their nightmares. Bio-weapons built for war and death. What they should have realized was that _I am the ultimate bio-weapon._ This is what I live for. This is my purpose as a **H**uman **U**nit **N**ever **K**illed. I'm a one-man genocide.

Personally, I could give a fuck about anyone's opinion. But say everything you want to and say it to me now. Because you don't have long.

**III**

**Several ****weeks later/ Location: Classified**

The call came in just past two a.m. That is how it will usually happen. A mission will come at anytime, from anywhere.

Picking up the receiver, I answer, "How did you get this number"

A calm, collected voice on the other end answers "I understand that you are a man of considerable talents. Someone who is able to accomplish any task that an employer asks of you, regardless of the dangers"

"That depends" I tell the man, "How did you get this number?"

There is a slight pause before the man says, "That's really an unimportant issue at this moment. What is pertinent is whether or not you're willing to hear my offer"

"I'm not one to turn people away until I've heard what they have to say" I tell him, sitting down at the desk I've fashioned for myself and booting up a computer.

"Very well then. I am looking to procure an item."

"An item?" I ask dubiously. "What sort of item are we discussing here?"

The man responds, "Let's say it is of the biological variety. And it is something of grave importance that I would like to have in my possession. It is located somewhere in a small chain of islands just off the western coast of Spain. Specifically in a constructed wooden and steel atoll. I'll be sending you the details of its location shortly. But…"

"But?" I ask, slightly raising an eyebrow.

"But", he continues, "It should be within your best interests to know that the item is heavily guarded and the people stationed to protect it are, how should we say, _unusually aggressive._ Should you accept this mission you can expect to run into overwhelming hostility"

"That shouldn't be an issue to concern yourself with" I tell him flatly.

"Yes, I know. You're reputation is quite extensive", I hear him muse through the phone.

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves" I cut him off. "If you're aware of my reputation then you'll know that I don't accept just any job. What makes you think that I'll even consent to this mission at all?"

"Take a look at your bank statement" the man almost orders.

In less than a minute, I have a readout of my funds as they stand in various banks all over the world. Not counting what I already have collected, I scroll down to the recent deposits. I was almost ready to take the job. A mission that seemed fitting for a man of my abilities. But what I saw on the computer screen gave me the final push for consent.

_$12,000,000.00_

The number doesn't even have time to sink in before there's a voice in my ear. "No doubt you've seen the generous amount that I've given you already. Make no mistake, I know that money matters little to a man like you. But it never hurt anyone either" he says, slyly over the phone. "And just so there isn't any confusion, you'll get the other twelve million once the mission is completed and the item that I want is delivered to me"

I take a few seconds to ponder the man's demands. Even though it seemed strait forward, there was something about the man and his offer that seemed, sinister. Nostalgic even. Something deep in the back of my mind that told me I'd been down this road before. And even though it was more about testing my skills, a twenty four million dollar fee was not something that people just pass up.

"Very well, I'll take the mission" I tell the man.

"Excellent, I'll be sending you more specific details about the mission as well as arranged travel information.

**III**

Closing the connection and sending the remaining information, Albert Wesker sat and pondered his actions. The past several weeks had been particularly frustrating. The events in Pueblo had left him empty handed, regardless of the number of measures he'd taken. Despite sending in two agents, Wesker still did not have a viable sample of the Las Plagas parasite. Although they had been the most highly regarded people to be sent in to retrieve the sample, both agents had been utter failures for different reasons.

Jack Krauser had infiltrated the Los Illuminados cult to procure a sample of the parasite. His loyalty to Wesker was without question. Something that was both a blessing and a curse to the man. Loyalty meant that the job would get done. But it also left room open for possible, unforeseen problems. The inclusion of the man known as Leon S. Kennedy, was one of these problems. Kennedy had once been a police officer for the Raccoon City police department around the time that the T-virus had broken out in the city. He had since gone on to work for the government and had something of a history with Krauser.

Kennedy's unforeseen inclusion in the events involving Las Plagas had been Krauser's downfall. Unwilling to sever old ties with the man, Krauser practically had put himself in the position to be bested in combat.

Ada Wong's defiance had been less of a surprise to Wesker. Despite saving her life during the events of Raccoon, Wesker knew that a woman like Ada was not to be trusted. He didn't even need superhuman abilities to know that it was only a matter of time before she defected. The confrontations that had transpired during Raccoon that had left a noticeable change with her. These changes had carried over to the Pueblo mission, as Wesker had noticed. Numerous times during the mission she had, no doubt, ignored his orders to assassinate Kennedy. And just when he thought he had a viable Plagas sample, her deception had been immediately evident. It was foreseeable that she had disobeyed him and even more unsurprising that she had dropped off the radar. Wesker wouldn't have even been surprised to learn that it was she who had finished off Krauser.

As much as he hated to admit it, he was impressed. Not many were able to fuck him over to such a degree as Ada had.

He had thought about having her killed, but felt it would be a waste of his time for such a small indiscretion. He still had to focus on getting a Plagas sample. With Krauser and Ada out of the picture, Wesker was at a loss with what to do. He didn't dare go in and get the sample himself. Staying in the shadows as much as possible was the optimal way to conduct himself at this point. So he turned to other options.

Whatever the problem, Wesker always got what he wanted. And mercenaries were a dime a dozen in this day and age. But few had what it took to go up against the type of odds that one would have faced in Pueblo, Rockfort or even Raccoon. There were however, two men that had almost the exact same qualifications.

Abdi Hassan Jarrah was a mercenary from Somalia that had severed ties to the ideals that many others in his country held. The Somalian had earned a reputation for being one of the best mercs in the world. He moved around a lot, taking missions that he knew would test him as a man and a soldier. For that was all he lived for. Nothing but his own survival. A type of neo-natural selection. Through word of mouth, Wesker had learned that Abdi was searching for a man that had killed his brother years ago during Operation Gothic Serpent. It was the man's dream to best his brother's killer in combat. If for nothing more than bragging rights. Abdi was willing to do whatever it took to prove that he was superior in everyway. The perfect soldier.

He had practically jumped at the opportunity to prove this once Wesker had contacted him. It wasn't hard. With his resources, Wesker could find anyone. And Abdi had much in common with the other candidate.

As much as he disliked him, special Agent HUNK had proven a valuable asset over the years. He had no real morals, no sense of conscience, and was unwilling to compromise for the sake of a mission. His time under the tutelage of Umbrella had turned Agent HUNK into a one man killing machine. And he was quite proficient. Given the amount of field time that he had put in, as well as the number of missions that he'd conducted for Umbrella, the man was the prime choice for what Wesker needed. Perhaps the man's crowning moment was aiding in the assassination of Wesker's old friend, William Birkin. But from the intel he'd gathered surrounding the events of Raccoon City, Birkin was not about to let Umbrella steal his work and leave him for dead.

Apparently dying from wounds sustained by Umbrella's Special Forces, Birkin's only trump card was to inject himself with his own creation, the newly constructed G-virus in a last ditch effort on Umbrella. The massacre that followed left HUNK the only survivor of the extraction team sent in to retrieve the virus. Either through skill, survival abilities, or shear luck, HUNK stayed true to his namesake and was able to make it out of Raccoon alive.

As taxing as it had been, Wesker had enjoyed the game of cat and mouse that he had orchestrated for the two men. He had been glued to his collection of monitors for the past day and a half, watching the events unfold as the private war raged through the streets of the Nevada city and then culminated out into the desert.

Almost like the Wild West. Y2K style.

And once again, against the odds, HUNK had survived Wesker's game. He had proven himself to be the best candidate to acquire a Plagas sample.

Some would call it barbaric or perhaps a waste of time and resources. But Wesker was willing to do that which was necessary in order to make sure that whoever had lived was ready to brave the harsh environment and Plagas infected individuals it held.

No matter what, Wesker always got what he wanted. Twenty four million was nothing compared to the wealth that Wesker already compiled. And as it stood, with a Human Unit Never Killed at his disposal, Wesker's continuing rise to power was once again back on track.

Soon the world would see. It would see the ushering in of a new genesis. A genesis with Wesker at its head. And he would have **HUNK**, Mr. Death himself, to thank for it.

**END**

**Some lines are from the film "Lord of War"**

**Thanks for sticking with me through this story. While not as popular as my previous Leon/Ada story, I still feel that this accomplished something.**** I wanted to do something a bit different and a bit darker.**

**Through my perspective, it helped define HUN****K. Who he is, what his history was like, and what he'd do given the circumstances. He's by no means a 'good guy' more of an anti-hero. Someone who gets the job done no matter what. I tried to tailor him in a way that brought this aspect out of him. A guy that has no morals or conscience. Who gets his hands dirty. The ultimate bio-weapon incarnate.**

**And just to clear up any confusion, my ending of this story leads into the mercenary's mini-game of RE 4. By that I mean sending HUNK to the ****Water World**** level. It was the only level that made any sense to send him to.**

**Thanks for checking the story out and leaving some feed back.**

**For my fans, don't worry. A sequel to my Leon/Ada story IS coming, as is a Jill/Chris post RE5 story.**

**Peace.**

_**Track Listing Breakdown per chapter.**_

Track, Group, Album

**1. Invisible Wounds (Dark Bodies)**, _Fear Factory_, Resident Evil Soundtrack

**2. Everyday is Exactly the Same**, _Nine Inch Nails_, With Teeth

**3. I'm Shippin up to Boston**, _Dropkick Murphys_, The Warriors Code

**4. First Warning**, _The Prodigy_, Smokin Aces Soundtrack

**5. Tohuvabohu**, _KMFDM_, Tohuvabohu.

**6. Seizure of Power, **_Marylin Manson, _Resident Evil Soundtrack.

**7. The Beginning is the End is the Beginning**, _Smashing Pumpkins_, Batman and Robin soundtrack/Watchmen Trailer


End file.
